THE SECOND CLASS PASSENGER

Fifteen Stories

by

Perceval Gibbon

London Chapman & Dodd, Ltd. 25 Denmark Street, W. C. 2First Published (Methuen & Co. ) 6s. 1913First Published in the Abbey Library 1922

CONTENTS

 I. THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER II. THE SENSE OF CLIMAX III. THE TRADER OF LAST NOTCH IV. THE MURDERER V. THE VICTIM VI. BETWEEN THE LIGHTS VII. THE MASTER VIII. "PARISIENNE" IX. LOLA X. THE POOR IN HEART XI. THE MAN WHO KNEW XII. THE HIDDEN WAY XIII. THE STRANGE PATIENT XIV. THE CAPTAIN'S ARM XV. THE WIDOWER

I

THE SECOND-CLASS PASSENGER

The party from the big German mail-boat had nearly completed theirinspection of Mozambique, they had walked up and down the mainstreet, admired the palms, lunched at the costly table of Lazarus, and purchased "curios"--Indian silks, Javanese; knives, Birminghammetal-work, and what not--as mementoes of their explorations. Inparticular, Miss Paterson had invested in a heavy bronze image--apparently Japanese--concerning which she entertained the thrillingdelusion that it was an object of local worship. It was a grotesquething, massive and bulky, weighing not much less than ten or twelvepounds. Hence it was confided to the careful porterage of Dawson, anassiduous and favored courtier of Miss Paterson; and he, havinglunched, was fated to leave it behind at Lazarus' Hotel. 

Miss Paterson shook her fluffy curls at him. They were drawingtowards dinner, and the afternoon was wearing stale. 

"I did so want that idol, " she said plaintively. She had the childishquality of voice, the insipidity of intonation, which is bestappreciated in steamboat saloons. "Oh, Mr. Dawson, don't you thinkyou could get it back for me?"

"I'm frightfully sorry, " said the contrite Dawson. "I'll go back atonce. You don't know when the ship goes, do you?"

Another of Miss Paterson's cavaliers assured him that he had somehours yet. "The steward told me so, " he added authoritatively. 

"Then I'll go at once, " said Dawson, hating him. 

"Mind, don't lose the boat, " Miss Paterson called after him. 

He went swiftly back up the wide main street in which they had spentthe day. Lamps were beginning to shine everywhere, and the dull peaceof the place was broken by a new life. Those that dwell in darknesswere going abroad now, and the small saloons were filling. Dawsonnoted casually that evening was evidently the lively time ofMozambique. He passed men of a type he had missed during the day, menof all nationalities, by their faces, and every shade of color. Theywere lounging on the sidewalk in knots of two or three, sitting atthe little tables outside the saloons, or lurking at the entrances ofnarrow alleys that ran aside from the main street every few paces. All were clad in thin white suits, and some wore knives in fullsight, while there was that about them that would lead even the mostinnocent and conventional second-class passenger to guess at a weaponconcealed somewhere. Some of them looked keenly at Dawson as hepassed along; and although he met their eyes impassively, he--evenhe--was conscious of an implied estimate in their glance, as thoughthey classified him with a look. Once he stepped aside to let a womanpass. She was large, flamboyantly southern and calm. She loungedalong, a cloak over her left arm, her head thrown back, a cigarettebetween her wide, red lips. She, too, looked at Dawson--looked downat him with a superb lazy nonchalance, laughed a little, and walkedon. The loungers on the sidewalk laughed too, but rather with herthan at Dawson. 

"I seem rather out of it here, " he told himself patiently, and wasglad to enter the wide portals of Lazarus' Hotel. A grand, swarthyGreek, magnificent in a scarlet jacket and gold braid, pulled openthe door for him, and heard his mission smilingly. 

"A brass-a image, " he repeated. "Sir, you wait-a in the bar, an' Itell-a the boy go look. "

"You must be quick, then, " said Dawson, "'cause I'm in a hurry to getback. "

"Yais, " smiled the Greek. "Bimeby he rain-a bad. "

"Rain?" queried Dawson incredulously. The air was like balm. 

"You see, " the Greek nodded. "This-a way, sir. I go look-a quick. "

Dawson waited in the bar, where a dark, sallow bar-man stared him outof countenance for twenty minutes. At the end of that time the imagewas forthcoming. The ugly thing had burst the paper in which it waswrapped, and its grinning bullet-head projected handily. The paperwas wisped about its middle like a petticoat. Dawson took itthankfully from the Greek, and made suitable remuneration in smallsilver. 

"Bimeby rain, " repeated the Greek, as he opened a door for him again. 

"Well, I'm not made of sugar, " replied Dawson, and set off. 

It was night now, for in Mozambique evening is but a brief hiatusbetween darkness and day. It lasts only while the sun is dipping;once the upper limb is under the horizon it is night, full andabsolute. As Dawson retraced his steps the sky over him was velvet-black, barely punctured by faint stars, and a breeze rustled faintlyfrom the sea. He had not gone two hundred yards when a large, warmdrop of rain splashed on his back. Another pattered on his hat, andit was raining, leisurely, ominously. 

Dawson pulled up and took thought. At the end of the main street hewould have to turn to the left to the sea-front, and then to the leftagain to reach the landing-stage. If, now, there were any nearerturning to the left--if any of the dark alleys that openedcontinually beside him were passable--he might get aboard the steamerto his dinner in the second-class saloon with a less emphaticdrenching than if he went round by the way he had come. Mozambique, he reflected, could not have only one street--it was too big forthat. From the steamer, as it came to anchor, he had seen acre uponacre of flat roofs, and one of the gloomy alleys beside him mustsurely debouch upon the sea-front. He elected to try one, anyhow, andaccordingly turned aside into the next. 

With ten paces he entered such a darkness as he had never known. Thealley was barely ten feet wide: it lay like a crevasse between high, windowless walls of houses. The warm, leisurely rain droppedperpendicularly upon him from an invisible sky, and presently, hugging the wall, he butted against a corner, and found, or guessed, that his way was no longer straight. Underfoot there was mud andgarbage that once gulfed him to the knee, and nowhere in all thoseterrible, silent walls on each side of him was there a light or adoor, nor any sight of life near at hand. He might have been in acatacomb, companioned by the dead. 

The stillness and the loneliness scared and disturbed him. He turnedon a sudden impulse to make his way back to the lights of the street. 

But this was to reckon without the map of Mozambique--which does notexist. Ten minutes sufficed to overwhelm him in an intricacy of blindways. He groped by a wall to a turning, fared cautiously to pass it, found a blank wall opposite him, and was lost. His sense of directionleft him, and he had no longer any idea of where the street lay andwhere the sea. He floundered in gross darkness, inept andpersistent. It took some time, many turnings, and a tumble in the mudto convince him that he was lost. And then the rain came down inearnest. 

It roared, it pelted, it stamped on him. It was not rain, as he knewit: it was a cascade, a vehement and malignant assault by all thewetness in heaven. It whipped, it stung, it thrashed; he was drenchedin a moment as though by a trick. He could see nothing, but gropedblind and frightened under it, feeling along the wall with one hand, still carrying the bronze image by the head with the other. Once hedropped it, and would have left it, but with an impulse like aneffort of self-respect, he searched for it, groping elbow-deep in theslush and water, found it, and stumbled on. Another corner presenteditself; he came round it, and almost at once a light showed itself. 

It was a slit of brightness below a door, and without a question thedrenched and bewildered Dawson lifted the image and hammered on thedoor with it. A hum of voices within abated as he knocked, and therewas silence. He hammered again, and he heard bolts being withdrawninside. The door opened slowly, and a man looked out. 

"I've lost my way, " flustered Dawson pitifully. "I'm wet through, andI don't know where I am. " Even as he spoke the rain was cuttingthrough his clothes like blades. "Please let me in;" he concluded. "Please let me in. "

The man was backed by the light, and Dawson could see nothing of himsave that he was tall and stoutly made. But he laughed, and openedthe door a foot farther to let him pass in. 

"Come in, " he bade him. His voice was foreign and high. "Come in. Allmay come in to-night. "

Dawson entered, leading a trail of water over a floor of bare boards. His face was running wet, and he was newly dazzled with the light. But when he had wiped his eyes, he drew a deep breath of relief andlooked about him. The room was unfurnished save for a littered tableand some chairs, and a gaudy picture of the Virgin that hung on thewall. On each side of it was a sconce, in which a slovenly candleguttered. A woman was perched on a corner of the table, a heavy shawlover her head. Under it the dark face, propped in the fork of herhand, glowed sullenly, and her bare, white arm was like a menacingthing. Dawson bowed to her with an instinct of politeness. In a chairnear her a grossly fat man was huddled, scowling heavily under thick, fair brows, while the other man, he who had opened the door, stoodsmiling. 

The woman laughed softly as Dawson ducked to her, scanning him withan amusement that he felt as ignominy. But she pointed to the imagedangling in his hand. 

"What is that?" she asked. 

Dawson laid it on the floor carefully. "It's a curio, " he explained. "I was fetching it for a lady. An idol, you know. "

The fat man burst into a hoarse laugh, and the other man spoke toDawson. 

"An' you?" he queried. "What you doing 'ere, so late an' so wet?"

"I was trying to take a short cut to the landing-stage, " Dawsonreplied. "Like a silly fool, I thought I could find my way throughhere. But I got lost somehow. "

The fat man laughed again. 

"You come off the German steamer?" suggested the woman. 

Dawson nodded. "I came ashore with some friends, " he answered, "fromthe second-class. But I left them to go back and fetch this idol, andhere I am. "

The tall man who had opened the door turned to the woman. 

"So we must wait a leetle longer for your frien's, " he said. 

She tossed her head sharply. 

"Friends!" she exclaimed. "Mother of God! Would you walk about withyour knives for ever? When every day other men are taken, can you askto go free? Am I the wife of the Intendente?"

"No, nod the vife!" barked the stout man violently. "But if you gan'ttell us noding better than to stop for der police to dake us, vot'sder good of you?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders, and the shawl slipped, and showedthem bare and white above her bodice. 

"I have done all that one could do, " she answered sullenly, withdefiant eyes. "Seven months you have done as you would, untouched. That was through me. Now, fools, you must take your turn--one month, three months, six months--who knows?--in prison. One carries a knife--one goes to prison! What would you have?"

"Gif der yong man a chair, Tonio, " said the fat man, and hiscompanion reached Dawson a seat. He sat on it in the middle of thefloor, while they wrangled around him. He gathered that the two menanticipated a visit from the police very shortly, and that theyblamed it on the woman, who might have averted it. Both the menaccused her of their misfortune, and she faced them dauntlessly. Shetried to bring them, it seemed, to accept it as inevitable, as athing properly attendant on them; to show that she, after all, couldnot change the conditions of existence. 

"You stabbed the Greek, " she argued once, turning sharply on the tallman. 

"Well, " he began, and she flourished her hand as an ergo. 

"Life is not spending money, " she even philosophized. "One pays forliving, my friend, with work, with pain, with jail. Here you have topay. I have paid for you, seven months nearly, with smiles and love. But the price is risen. It is your turn now. "

Dawson gazed at her fascinated. She spoke and gesticulated with acaptivating spirit. Life brimmed in her. As she spoke, her motionswere arguments in themselves. She put a case and demolished it with asmile; presented the alternative, left a final word unspoken, and thething was irresistible. Dawson, perched lonely on his chair, experienced a desire to enter the conversation. 

The men were beyond conviction. "Why didn't you"--do this or that?the tall man kept asking, and his fat comrade exploded, "Yea, vy?"They seemed to demand of her that she should accept blame withoutquestion; and to her answers, clear and ready, the fat man retortedwith a gross oath. 

"Excuse me, sir, " began Dawson, shocked. He was aching to be on thewoman's side. 

"Vott" demanded the fat man. 

"That's hardly the way to speak to a lady, " said Dawson gravely. 

The tall man burst into a clear laugh, and the fat man glared atDawson. He flinched somewhat, but caught the woman's eye and foundcomfort and reinforcement there. She, too, was smiling, butgratefully, and she gave him a courteous little nod of thanks. 

"I don't like to hear such language used to a lady, " he said, speaking manfully enough, and giving the fat man eyes as steady ashis own. "No gentleman would do it, I'm sure. "

"Vot der hell you got to do mit it?" demanded the other ferociously, while his companion laughed. 

The woman held up a hand. "Do not quarrel, " she said. "There istrouble enough already. Besides, they may be here any moment. Isthere anything to get ready?"

"But vot der hell, " cried the fat man again. She turned on him. 

"Fool! fool! Will you shout and curse all night, till the algemas areon you?"

"Yes; an' you put dem on us, " the tall man interrupted. 

She turned swiftly on him, poising her small head over her barebreasts with a superb scorn. 

"Why do you lie?" she demanded hotly. "Why do you lie? Must you hideeven from your own blame behind my skirts? Mother of God!"--anoutstretched hand called the tawdry Virgin on the wall to witness--"you are neither man nor good beast--just----"

The tall man interrupted. "Don' go, on!" he said quietly. "Don' goon!" His eyes were shining, and he carried one hand beneath his coat. "Don' dare to go on!"

"Dare!" The woman lifted her face insolently, brought up her bare armwith a slow sweep, and puffed once at an imaginary cigarette. Therewas so much of defiance in the action that Dawson, watching her, breathless, started to his feet with something hard and heavy in hishand. It was the image. 

"Thief!" said the woman slowly, gazing under languorous eyelids atthe white, venomous face of the tall man. "Thief and----" she leanedforward and said the word, the ultimate and supreme insult of thecoast. 

It was barely said when there flashed something in the man's hand. Hewas poised on his toes, leaning forward a little, his arm swingingbeside him. The woman flung both arms before her face and cried out;then leaned rapidly aside as a pointed knife whizzed past her headand struck twanging in the wall behind her. The man sprang forward, and the next instant the room was chaos, for Dawson, tingling to hisextremities, stepped in and spread him out with a crashing blow onthe head. The "idol" was his weapon. 

The stout German thundered an oath and heaved to his feet, fumblingat his hip and babbling broken profanity. 

Dawson swung the image and stepped towards him. 

"Keep still, " he cried, "or I'll brain you!"

"Der hell!" vociferated the German, and fired swiftly at him. Theroom filled with smoke, and Dawson, staggering unhurt, but with hisface stung with powder, did not see the man fall. As the German drewthe revolver clear, the woman knifed him in the neck, and hecollapsed on his face, belching blood upon the boards of the floor. The woman stood over him, the knife still in her hand, looking atDawson with a smile. 

"My God!" he said as he glanced about him. The tall man was lying athis feet, huddled hideously on the floor. The room stank of violenceand passion. "My God!" and he stooped to the body. 

The woman touched him on the shoulder. "Gome, " she said. "It's nogood. It was a grand blow, a king's blow. 'You cannot help him. "

"But--but----" he flustered as he rose. The emergency was beyond him. He had only half a strong man's equipment--the mere brawn. "Two menkilled. I must get back to the ship. "

He saw the woman smiling, and caught at his calmness. There wascomprehension in her eyes, and to be understood is so often to bedespised. "You must come too, " he added, on an impulse, and stopped, appalled by the idea. 

"To the ship?" she cried and laughed. "Oh, la la! But no! Still, wemust go from here. The police will be here any minute, and if theyfind you----" She left it unsaid, and the gap was ominous. 

The police! To mention them was to touch all that was conventional, suburban, and second-class in Dawson. He itched to be gone. A pictureof Vine Street police court and a curtly aloof magistrate flashedacross his mind, and a reminiscence of evening paper headlines, andhis mind fermented hysterically. 

The woman put back her knife in some secret recess of her clothes, and opened the door cautiously. "Now!" she said, but paused, and cameback. She went to the picture of the Virgin and turned its face tothe wall. "One should not forget respect, " she observedapologetically. "These things are remembered. Now come. "

No sooner were they in the gloomy alley outside than the neighborhoodof others was known to them. There was a sound of many feet ploughingin the mud, and a suppressed voice gave a short order. The womanstopped and caught Dawson's arm. 

"Hush!" she whispered. "It is the police. They have come for the men. They will be on both sides of us. Wait and listen. "

Dawson stood rigid, his heart thumping. The darkness seemed to surgearound him with menaces and dangers. The splashing feet were nearer, coming up on their right, and once some metal gear clinked as itswearer scraped against the wall. He could smell men, as he rememberedafterwards. The woman beside him retained her hold on his arm, andremained motionless till it seemed that the advancing men must runinto them. 

"Come quietly, " she whispered at length, putting warm lips to hisear. Her hand dropped along his arm till she grasped his fingers. Sheled him swiftly away from the place, having waited till the policeshould be so near that the noise they made would drown their ownretreat. 

On they went, then, as before, swishing through the foulnessunderfoot, and without speaking. Only at times the woman's hold onhis hand would tighten, and, meeting with no response, would slackenagain, and she would draw him on ever more quickly. 

"Where are we going?" he ventured to ask. 

"We are escaping, " she answered, with a brief tinkle of laughter. "Ifyou knew from what we are escaping, you would not care where. Buthurry, always!"

Soon, however, she paused, still holding his hand. Again they heardfootsteps, and this time the woman turned to him desperately. 

"There is a door near by, " she breathed. "We must find it, or----"again the unspoken word. "Feel always along the wall there. Farther, go farther. It should be here. "

They sprang on, with hands to the rough plaster on the wall, tillDawson encountered the door, set level with the wall, for which theysought. 

"Push, " panted the woman, heaving at it with futile hands. Even inthe darkness he could see the gleam of her naked arms and shoulders. "Push it in. "

Dawson laid his shoulder to it, his arms folded, and shoveddesperately till his head buzzed. As he eased up he heard the nearfeet of the menacing police again. 

"You must push it in!" cried the woman. "It is the only way. Ifnot--"

"Here, catch hold of this, " said Dawson, and she found the bronzeimage in her hands. "Let me come, " he said, and standing back alittle, he flung his twelve stone of bone and muscle heavily on thedoor. It creaked, and some fastening within broke and fell to theground. 

Once again he assaulted it, and it was open. They passed rapidlywithin, and closed it behind them, and with the woman's hand guiding, Dawson stumbled up a long, narrow, sloppy stair that gave on to theflat roof of the building. Above them was sky again. The rain hadpassed, and the frosty stars of Mozambique shone faintly. He took adeep breath as he received the image from the hands of the woman. 

"You hear them?" she said, and he listened with a shudder to thepassing of the men below. 

"But we must go on, " she said. "We are not safe yet. Over the wall tothe next roof. Come!"

They clambered over a low parapet, and dropped six feet to anotherlevel. Dawson helped the woman up the opposite wall, and she satreconnoitering on the top. 

"Come quietly, " she warned him, and he clambered up beside her andlooked down at the roof before them. In a kind of tent personsappeared to be sleeping; their breath was plainly to be heard. 

"You must walk like a rat, " she whispered, smiling, and loweredherself. He followed. She was crouching in the shadow of the wall, and drew him down beside her. Somebody had ceased to sleep in thetent, and was gabbling drowsily, in a monotonous sing-song. 

"If they see us, " she whispered to him, "they will think you havecome here after the women. "

"But we could say----" he began. 

"There will be nothing to say, " she interrupted. "Hush! There hecomes. "

Out of the tent crawled a man, lean and black and bearded, with asheet wrapped around him. He stood up and looked around, yawning. Thewoman nestled closer to Dawson, who gripped instinctively on thebronze image. The man walked to the parapet on their left and lookedover, and then walked back to the tent and stood irresolutely, muttering to himself. Squatted under the wall, Dawson found room amidthe race of his disordered thoughts to wonder that he did notinstantly see them. 

He was coming towards them, and Dawson felt the bare shoulder thatpressed against his arm shrug slightly. The man was ten paces away, walking right on to them, and looking to the sky, when, withthrobbing temples and tense lips, Dawson rose, ran at him, andgripped him. He had the throat in the crutch of his right hand, andstrangled the man's yell as it was conceived. They went downtogether, writhing and clutching, Dawson uppermost, the man under himscratching and slapping at him with open hands. He drew up a knee andfound a lean chest under it, drove it in, and choked his man tosilence and unconsciousness. 

"Take this, take this, " urged the woman, bending beside him. Shepressed her slender-bladed knife on him. "Just a prick, and he isquite safe!"

Dawson rose. "No, " he said. "He's still enough now. No need to killhim. " He looked at the body and from it to the woman. "Didn't I gethim to rights?" he asked exultantly. 

She raised her face to his. 

"It was splendid, " she said. "With only the bare hands to take anarmed man----"

"Armed!" repeated Dawson. 

"Surely, " she answered. "That, at least, is always sure. See, " shepulled the man's sheet wide. Girt into a loin-cloth below was anugly, broad blade. "Yes, it was magnificent. You are a man, myfriend. "

"And you, " he said, thrilled by her adulation and, the proximity ofher bare, gleaming bosom, "are a woman. "

"Then----" she began spiritedly; but in a heat of cordial impulse hetook her to him and kissed her hotly on the lips. 

"I was wondering when it would come, " she said slowly, as he releasedher. "When you spoke to the German about the bad word, I began towonder. I knew it would come. Kiss me again, my friend, and we willgo on. "

"Are we getting towards the landing-stage?" he asked her, as the nextroof was crossed. "I mustn't miss my boat, you know. "

"Oh, that!" she answered. "You want to go back?"

"Well, of course, " he replied, in some surprise. "That's what I wastrying to do when I knocked at your door. I've missed my dinner as itis. "

"Missed your dinner!" she repeated, with a bubble of mirth. "Ye-es;you have lost that, but, "--she came to him and laid a hand on hisshoulder, speaking softly--"but you have seen me. Is it nothing, friend, that you have saved me?"

He had stopped, and she was looking up to him, half-smiling, half-entreating, wholly alluring. He looked down into her dark face, witha sudden quickening about the heart. 

"And all this fighting, " she continued, as though he were to beconvinced of something. "You conquer men as though you were bred onthe roofs of Mozambique. You fight like--like a hero. It is a rush, ablow, a tumble, and you have them lying at your feet. And when youremember all this, will you not be glad, friend--will you not be gladthat it was for me?"

He nodded, clearing his throat huskily. Her hand on his shoulder wasa thing to charm him to fire. 

"I'd fight--I'd fight for you, " he replied uneasily, "as long as--aslong as there was any one to fight. "

He was feeling his way in speech, as best he could, pastconventionalities. There had dawned on him, duskily and half-seen, the unfitness of little proprieties and verbose frills while he wentto war across the roofs with this woman of passion. 

"You would, " she said fervently, with half-closed eyes. "I know youwould. "

She dropped her hand, and stood beside him in silence. There was along pause. He guessed she was waiting for the next move from him, and he nerved himself to be adequate to her unspoken demand. 

"You lead on, " he said at last unsteadily. 

"Where?" she asked breathlessly. 

He did not speak, but waved an open hand that gave her the freedom ofchoice. It was his surrender to the wild spirit of the Coast, and hegrasped the head of the brass image the tighter when he had done it. She and Fate must guide now; it rested with him only to breakopposing heads. 

She smiled and shivered. "Come on, then, " she said, and startedbefore him. 

They traversed perhaps a score of roofs enclosed with high parapets, on to each of which he lifted her, hands in her armpits, swinging hercleanly to the level of his face and planting her easily and squarelyon the coping. He welcomed each opportunity to take hold of her andput out the strength of his muscles, and she sat where he placed her, smiling and silent, while he clambered up and dropped down on theother side. 

At length a creaking wooden stair that hung precariously on the sheerside of a house brought them again to the ground level. It wasanother gloomy alley into which they descended, and the darknessabout him and the mud underfoot struck Dawson with a sense of beingagain in familiar surroundings. The woman's hand slid into his ashe stood, and they started along again together. 

The alley seemed to be better frequented than that of which healready had experience. More than once dark, sheeted figures passedthem by, noiseless save for the underfoot swish in the mud, andpresently the alley widened into a little square, at one side ofwhich there was a fresh rustle of green things. At the side of it adim light showed through a big open door, from which came a musicalmurmur of voices, and Dawson recognized a church. 

"The Little Garden of St. Sebastien, " murmured the woman, and led himon to cross the square. A figure that had been hidden in the shadownow lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform. He stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly inPortuguese. 

Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to berepeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably;but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen herargue in that ill-fated room an hour back. 

"What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently. 

"He says he won't let me go, " answered the woman, with a tone ofdespair in her voice. 

"The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"

"Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can, "she replied, with a smile. 

"Here, you!" cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform--"you go away. Voetsaak, see! You mind your own business, and getout. "

The officer drawled something in his own tongue, which was, ofcourse, unintelligible to Dawson, but it had the effect of annoyinghim strangely. 

"You little beast!" he said, and knocked the man down with his fist. 

"Run, " hissed the woman at his elbow--"run before he can get up. No, not that way. To the church and out by another way!"

She caught his hand, and together they raced across the square and inthrough the big door. 

There were a few people within, most sleeping on the benches andalong the floor by the walls. In the chancel there were others, masked by the lights, busy with some offices. A wave of sudden songissued from among them as Dawson and the woman entered, and gave wayagain to the high, nervous voice of a map that stood before thealtar. All along the sides of the church was shadow, and the womanspeedily found a little arched door. 

"Come through the middle of it, " she whispered urgently to Dawson, asshe packed her loose skirts together in her hand--"cleanly throughthe middle; do not rub the wall as you come. "

He obeyed and followed her, and they were once more in the darknessof an alley. 

"It was the door of the lepers, " she explained, as she let her skirtsswish down again. "See, there is the light by the sea!"

The wind came cleanly up the alley, and soon they were at its mouth, where a lamp flickered in the breeze. Dawson drew a deep breath, andtucked the image under his arm. His palm was sore with the roughnessof its head. 

"Some one is passing, " said the woman in a low tone. "Wait here tillthey are by. "

Footsteps were approaching along the front, and very soon Dawsonheard words and started. 

"What is it!" whispered the woman, her breath on his neck. 

"Listen!" he answered curtly. 

The others came within the circle of the lamp--a girl and two men. 

"I do hope he's found my idol, " the girl was saying. 

Dawson stepped into the light, and they turned and saw him. 

"Why, here he is, " exclaimed Miss Paterson shrilly. 

He raised his hat to the woman who stood at the entrance to thealley--raised it as he would have raised it to a waitress in a bun-shop, and went over to the people from the second-class saloon. 

"I found it, " he said, lifting the image forward, and brushing withhis hand at the foulness of blood and hair upon it. "But I was almostthinking I should miss the boat. "

II

THE SENSE OF CLIMAX

It was in the fall of the year that Truda Schottelius on tour came tothat shabby city of Southern Russia. Nowadays, the world rememberslittle of her besides her end, which stirred it as Truda Schotteliuscould always stir her audience; but in those days hers was a famethat had currency from Paris to Belgrade, and the art of drama washeld her debtor. 

It was soon after dawn that she looked from her window in the train, weary with twelve hours of traveling, and saw the city set againstthe pale sky, unreal and remote like a scene in a theatre, whileabout it the flat land stretched vacant and featureless. The lightwas behind it, and it stood out in silhouette like a forced effect, and Truda, remarking it, frowned, for of late she found herselfimpatient of forced effects. She was a pale, slender, brown-hairedwoman, with a small clear, pliant face, and some manner of languor inall her attitudes that lent them a slow grace of their own and didnot at all impair the startling energy she could command for herwork. While she looked out at the city there came a tap at the doorof her compartment, and her maid entered with tea. Behind her, alittle drawn in that early hour, came Truda's manager, MonsieurVaucher. 

"Madame finds herself well?" he asked solicitously, but shiveringsomewhat. "Madame is in the mood for further triumphs?"

Truda gave him a smile. Monsieur Vaucher was a careful engineer ofher successes, a withered little middle-aged Parisian, who had grownup in the mechanical service of great singers and actors. There wasnot a tone in his voice, not a gesture in his repertory, that was notan affectation; and, with it all, she knew him for a man of sterlingloyalty and a certain simplicity of heart. 

"We are on the point of arriving, " went on Monsieur Vaucher. "I cometo tell Madame how the ground lies in this city. It is, you see, aplace vexed with various politics, an arena of trivialities. In otherwords, Madame, the best place in the world for one who is--shall wesay?--detached. "

Truda laughed, sipping her warm tea. 

"Politics have never tempted me, my friend, " she replied. 

Monsieur Vaucher bowed complaisantly. 

"Your discretion is frequently perfect, " he said. "And if I suggestthat here is an occasion for a particular discretion, it is onlybecause I have Madame's interests at heart. Now, the chief matters ofdispute here are----"

Truda interrupted him. "Please!" she said. "It does not matter atall. And think! Politics before breakfast. I am surprised at you, Monsieur Vaucher. "

The little man shrugged. "It is as Madame pleases, " he said. "However, here we are at the station; I will go to make all ready. "

Truda had a wide experience of strange towns, and preserved yet someinterest in making their acquaintance. At that early hour the streetswere sparsely peopled; the city was still at its toilet. A swiftcarriage, manned by a bulky coachman of that spacious degree offatness which is fashionable in Russia, bore her to her hotel alongwide monotonous ways, flanked with dull buildings. It was all veryprosaic, very void of character; it did not at all engage herthoughts, and it was in weariness that she gained her rooms anddisposed herself for a day of rest before the evening's task. 

Another woman might have gathered depression and the weakness ofmelancholy from this dullness of arrival, following on the dullnessof travel; but a great actress is made on other lines. A largeaudience was gathered in the theatre that night to make acquaintancewith her, for her coming was an event of high importance. Only onebox was empty--that of the Governor of the city, a Russian Princewhom Truda had met before; it was understood that he was away, andcould not return till the following day. 

But for the rest the house was full; its expectancy made itself feltlike an atmosphere till the curtain went up and the play began toshape itself. Audiences, like other assemblies of people, have theirracial characteristics; it was the task of Truda to get the range, asit were--to find the measure of their understanding; and before thefirst act was over she had their sympathy. The rest was but theeveryday routine of the stage, that grotesque craft wherein delicateemotions are handled like crowbars, and only the crude colors of lifeare visible. It was a success--even a great success, and nobody saveTruda had an inkling that there was yet something to discover in thesoul of a Russian audience. 

At her coming forth, the square was thick with people under thelights, and those nearest the stage-door cheered her as she passed toher carriage. But Truda was learned in the moods of crowds, and inher reception she detected a perfunctory note, as though the peoplewho waved and shouted had turned from graver matters to notice her. She saw, as the carriage dashed away, that the crowd was stronglyleavened with uniforms of police; there was not time to see morebefore a corner was turned and the square cut off from view. She satback among her cushions with a shrug directed at those corners in heraffairs which always shut off the real things of life. 

The carriage went briskly towards her hotel, traversing those widecharacterless streets which are typical of a Russian town. Thepavements were empty, the houses shuttered and dark; save for thebroad back of the coachman perched before her, she sat in a solitude. Thus it was that the sound which presently she heard moved her toquick attention, the noise of a child crying bitterly in thedarkness. She sat up and leaned aside to look along the bare street, and suddenly she called to the coachman to halt. When he did so, thecarriage was close to the place whence the cry came. 

"What is it? What is it?" called Truda, in soft Russian, and steppeddown to the ground. Only that shrill weeping answered her. 

She picked her way to the pavement, where something lay huddledagainst the wall of the house, and the coachman, torpid on his boxbehind the fidgety horses, started at her sharp exclamation. 

"Come here!" she called to him. "Bring me one of the lamps. Here is ahorrible thing. Be quick!"

He was nervous about leaving his horses, but Truda's tone wascompelling. With gruntings and ponderously he obeyed, and thecarriage-lamp shed its light over the matter in hand. Under the wall, with one clutching hand outspread as though to grip at the stones ofthe pavement, lay the body of a woman, her face upturned and vacant. And by it, still crying, crouched a child, whose hands were closed onthe woman's disordered dress. Truda, startled to stillness, stood fora space of moments staring; the unconscious face on the ground seemedto look up to her with a manner of challenge, and the child, surprised by the light, paused in its weeping and cowered closer tothe body. 

"Murder?" said Truda hoarsely. It was a question, and the coachmanshuffled uneasily. 

"I think, " he stammered, while the lamp swayed in his gauntleted handand its light traveled about them in wild curves--"I think, yourExcellency, it is a Jew. "

"A Jew!" Truda stared at him. "Yes. " He bent to look closer at thedead woman, puffing with the exertion. "Yes, " he repeated, "a Jew. That is all, your Excellency. "

He seemed relieved at the discovery. Truda was still staring at him, in a cold passion of horror. 

"My God!" she breathed; then turned from him with a shudder and kneltbeside the child. "Go back to the carriage! Wait!" she bade him, withher back turned, and he was fain to obey her with his best speed. There, ere his conventional torpor claimed him again, he could hearher persuading and comforting the child in a voice of gentle murmurs, and at last she returned, carrying the child in her arms, and badehim drive on. As he went, the murmuring voice still sounded, gentleand very caressing. 

Truda paused to make no explanations at all when the hotel wasreached, but passed through the hall and up to her own rooms with thefrightened child in her arms. But what the coachman had to say, whenquestioned, presently brought her manager knocking at her door. Hewas hot and nervous, and Truda met him with the splendid hauteur shecould assume upon occasion to quell interference with her actions. Behind her, upon a couch, the child was lying wrapped in a shawl, looking on the pair of them and Truda's hovering maid with greatalmond eyes set in a little smooth swarthy face. 

"Madame, Madame!" cried M. Vaucher. "What is this I hear? How are weto get on in Russia--in Russia of all places--if you go in the faceof public opinion like this?"

"I do not know, " replied Truda very calmly. She took a chair besidethe child, leaving him standing, and put a long white hand on thelittle tumbled head. 

"It is incredible!" he said. "Incredible! And at such a time as this, too. What do you propose to do with the child?"

"I do not know, " answered Truda again. 

"It will be claimed, " he said, biting his nails. "These Jews arenever short of relatives. "

"If it is claimed by a relative, that will be the end of the matter, "replied Truda. "If not--we shall see. "

"Then let us hope it will be claimed, " he said quickly. He gazedabsently at the child, and shook his head. "Ah, Madame, " he said, "ifonly one could cut an actress's heart out! The worst of them is, theyare all woman, even the greatest. "

Truda smiled a little. "That is inconvenient, no doubt, " shesuggested. 

"Inconvenient!" He hoisted his shoulders in a mighty shrug. "It isdevastating, Madame. See now! Here is this city--a beastly place, itis true, but with much money, and very busy exterminating Jews. Whichwill you, Madame--its money or its Jews? You see the choice! But Iwill weary you no longer; the child will assuredly be claimed. "

He bowed and took his departure; it was not well, he knew, for anymanager to push Truda Schottelius too far. Therefore he went to makeit known that a Jewish baby of two or thereabouts was to be had forthe asking, at the hotel; and Truda went to work to make her newly-found responsibility comfortable. For that night she experienced whata great artist must often miss--something with a flavor more subtlethan the realization of a strong role, than passion, than success. Itwas when the baby was sleeping in her own bed, its combed headdinting one of her own white pillows, that she looked across to herdeft, tactful maid. 

"I believe I have found a new sensation, Marie, " she remarked. 

The maid smiled. "I had little sisters, " she answeredinconsequently. 

"Yes?" said Truda. "I had nothing--not even a little sister. "

The new sensation remained with her that night, for the babyslumbered peacefully in her arms; and several times she awoke to bendabove it and wonder, with happiness and longing, over the miracle ofthat little dependent life cast away on the shores of the world. Bymorning its companionship had so wrought in her that she could havegiven the manager a clear answer if he had come again to ask what sheproposed to do with the child in the event of no one claiming it. Buthe did not come. Instead, there came a big red-haired young Jew, asserting that he was the child's uncle. 

Truda was at breakfast in her room when he arrived and was shown in;opposite to her at the table, the baby was making the most of variousfoods. It greeted him with shouts and open welcome; no further proofwas needed to establish his claim. Truda, delicate and fragile in amorning wrapper, a slender vivid exotic of a woman, shaped as thoughby design to the service of art, looked up to scan him. He stood justwithin the door, his peaked cap in his hand, great of stature, keen-faced, rugged, with steady eyes that took her in unwinkingly. Thepair of them made a contrast not the less grotesque because in eachthere was strength. For some moments neither spoke, while the babygurgled happily. 

Truda sighed. "She knows you, " she said. "She is a dear littlething. "

The Jew nodded. "She is dear to us, " he said. "And we are verygrateful to you, Excellency. "

He was still watching her with a shrewd scrutiny, as though he madean estimate of her worth. 

"That was her mother?" asked Truda. "The dead woman in the street, Imean?"

"Yes, " answered the man. "That was her mother. Her father went thesame way six months ago, but in another street. "

Truda's lips parted, but she said nothing. 

"Ah, perhaps your Excellency does not understand?" suggested the man. The cynical humor in his face had no resemblance to mirth. "They wereJews, you see--Jews. "

"Judenhetze?" asked Truda. She had heard of old of that strange feverthat seizes certain peoples and inflames them with a rabid lust forJewish blood. 

"Yes, " answered the Jew. "That is what they call it. But a localvariety. Here it is not sudden passion, but a thing suggested to themob, and guided by police and officers. It is an expedient ofpolitics. "

He spoke with a restraint that was more than any, emphasis. 

"And therefore, " he went on, "the kindness of your Excellency is thegreater, since you saved the child not from law-breakers, but fromauthority itself. "

"I have done nothing, " said Truda. "The child is a dear little thing. I--I wish she were mine. "

"She, too, is a Jew, " said the other. 

"I know, " answered Truda. The steadiness of his gaze was anembarrassment by now. She flushed a little under it. 

"I am wondering, " she said, "if nothing can be done. I think--Ibelieve--that the world does not know of this persecution. Perhaps Icould say a word--in some high quarter----"

"Why should you concern yourself?" asked the Jew evenly. "Why shouldyou take this trouble?"

"Why?" Truda looked up at him, doubtful of his meaning. 

He nodded. "Why?" he repeated. "It cannot be good for TrudaSchottelius to stand on the side of Jews?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Truda. 

He continued to look at her steadily, but made no answer. She rosefrom her chair and took one step towards him; then paused. A tensemoment of silence passed, and Truda Schottelius sighed. 

"How did you know?" she asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

The big young man smiled. "How did I know that you, too, were a Jew--is that what you mean?" Truda nodded. "Ah, Excellency, there is aninstinct in this thing, and, besides, who but a Jew is a great artistnowadays? Believe me, there is not one of us from whom you could hideit. "

"Is it as plain as that?" asked Truda. 

"As plain as that, " he replied. She laughed frankly, meeting his eyeswith unabashed mirth, till he perforce smiled in sympathy. 

"Then, " she cried, "what, does it matter? Here I am, a Jewess. Icannot hide it. The first Jewish baby that cries for me wins me over;and there are worse things--yes, many worse things--than beingknocked on the head by a drunken Christian. You didn't know that, didyou?"

"I do not doubt what you say, " he answered. 

"You do not doubt!" repeated Truda, with quick contempt. "I tell youit is so, and I know. Yes!" For a moment her face darkened as thoughwith memories. "But, " she went on, "I have a place. I have a name. What I say will be heard. "

"Yes, " said the Jew simply. "What you say will be heard. "

She nodded two or three times slowly. "Wait!" she said. "I know theGovernor of this place; he is by way of being a friend of mine. Andbeyond him there are greater men all easy of access--to me. Andbeyond them is the sentiment of Europe, the soft hearts of the world, easiest and nearest of all. I tell you, something can be done;presently there will be a reckoning with these gentle Christians. "

She had stirred him at last. "And you will acknowledge that you are aJewess?" he asked. 

She laughed. "I will boast of it, " she cried. "And now, this is thetime to take the baby away, while I am nerved for sacrifices. Soon Ishall have nothing left at all. "

The young Jew looked over to the child, who was getting new effectsout of a spoon and a dish of jam. "The child is in good hands, " hesaid. "We shall know she is safe with you. "

"Ah!" Truda turned to him with a light in her wonderful eyes. "Ishall not fail you, if it were only for this. "

"I am sure you will not fail your own people, " he answered; "you donot come of traitors. "

He patted the baby's cheek with a couple of big fingers and turned tothe door. 

"You do not come of traitors, " he repeated, and then Truda was aloneagain with the child. But she did not go to it at once, to make sureof its company. She stood where the Jew had left her, deep inthought. And the manner of her thinking was not one of care; for thefirst time she seemed to taste a sense of freedom. 

Of the wrath and bewilderment of her manager there is no need tospeak; a long experience of famous actresses and singers had notexhausted that expert's capacity for despair. His pessimism gainedsome color that evening, when Truda had to face a house that wasplainly willing to be unsympathetic; applause came doubtfully and inpatches, till she gained a hold of them and made herself their masterby main force of personality. Monsieur Vaucher, the manager, wasstill a connoisseur of art. Years of feeling the public pulse throughthe box-office had not stripped him of a certain shrewd perception ofwhat was fine and what was mean in drama; and he chuckled and waggedhis head in the wings as minute by minute the spell of Truda's geniusstrengthened, till there came that tenseness of silence in the greattheatre which few actors live to know, and Truda, vibrant, taut-nerved, and superb, plucked at men's hearts as if they had been harp-strings. It was not till the curtain was down that the spell broke, and then crash upon crash roared the tumultuous applause of theaudience. 

It was Vaucher who rushed forward, as Truda came from the stage, tokiss her hand extravagantly. 

"Ah! Madame!" he cried, looking up to her with his shrewd faceworking; "it is not for me to guide you. Do as you will by day, butbe a genius at night. At this rate you could unman an army. "

Truda smiled and withdrew her hand. 

"That was Prince Sarasin in the great box, " she said. "Presently hewill send his card in. "

Vaucher nodded. "That was he, " he said. "He is Governor of this town. Madame will receive him? Or not?"

"Oh yes; let him in to me, " she answered. "He is an old friend ofmine. "

Vaucher bowed. "What a happiness for him, then!" he said gravely, andopened the door of her dressing-room for her. 

Prince Sarasin lost no time in making Truda's word good. By the timeshe was ready to receive him, he was waiting for admission. He strodein, burly in his uniform, and bowed to her effusively, full ofadmiration. He was a great dark Russian, heavy and massive, with abig petulant face not without intelligence, and Truda had known himof old in Paris. She looked at him now with some anxiety, trying togauge his susceptibility. He had the spacious manners of a man ofaction, smiled readily and with geniality; but Truda realized thatshe had never before made him a request, and the real character ofthe man was still to find. 

"Superb! Magnificent!" he was saying. "You have ripened, my friend;your power has grown to maturity. It is people like you who makeepochs. "

"Sit down!" she bade him. "I am a little tired, as you may think. Your town is hard on one's nerves, Prince. "

"Hard!" He laughed as he drew a chair towards her and seated himself. "It is death to the intelligence. It is suffocation to one's finernature. It has a dullness that turns men into vegetables. I have beenhere now for three years, and till to-night I have not felt athrill. "

"No?" Truda spoke lightly of design. "But you are the Governor, areyou not? You are aloof, far above thrills. Why, it was only lastnight, while I was driving home, that I found a dead woman in thestreet. "

"I know, " he said. "And a live baby; I heard all about it. If you hadbeen an hour later they would have been cleaned away. I am sorry ifyou were shocked. "

"Shocked?" repeated Truda. "I was not thinking of that. " She shivereda little, and gathered her big cloak more closely about her. "But Ihad not heard--I did not know--what the Judenhetze really was. And Ithink the world does not know, or it would not tolerate it. "

"Eh?" The prince stared at her. "But it has upset you, " he saidsoothingly. "You must forget it. It is not well to dwell on thesethings. "

The big mirror against the wall, bright with lights, reflected thepair of them sitting face to face in the attitude of intimacy. ThePrince, bearded and big, felt protective and paternal, for Truda, muffled in her great cloak, looked very small and feminine just then. 

His tone, so consoling and smooth, roused her; she sat up. 

"Prince, " she said, "you could stop it. "

"The Judenhetze, you mean?" He made a gesture of resignation. "Youare wrong, dear lady. I can do nothing. It does not rest with me. "

"You mean, there are higher powers who are responsible?" shedemanded. 

"We will not talk politics, " suggested the Prince. "But roughly thatis what I mean. "

She scanned him seriously. "Yes, " she said; "I thought that was so. And you can do nothing? I see. "

"But why, " asked the Prince--"why let yourself be troubled, dearlady? This is a pitiful business, no doubt; it has thrust itself onyou by an accident; you are moved and disturbed. But, after all, theJews are not our friends. "

The courage to deal forthrightly was not lacking to her. As she satup again, the fur cloak slipped, and her bare shoulders gleamed aboveit. Her face was grave with the gravity of a serious child. 

"I am a Jewess, " she said. 

"Eh? What?" The Prince smiled uncertainly. 

"I am a Jewess, " repeated Truda. "The Jews are my friends. And if youcan do nothing, there is something I can do. "

He smiled still, but now there was amusement in his smile. He was notat all disconcerted. 

"Do you know, " he said, "I had almost guessed it? There is somethingin you--I noticed it again to-night, in your great scene--thatsuggests it. A sort of ardor, a glow, as it were; something burningand poignant. Well, if all the Jews were like you there would be noJudenhetze. "

She put the futile compliment from her with a movement of impatience. 

"You can still do nothing?" she asked

"My powers are where they were, Madame, " he answered. 

"Then, " she said slowly, "it rests with me. " She gathered her cloakabout her again. "I am tired, as you see, " she said wearily--"tiredand a little strained. I will beg you to excuse me. "

He rose to his feet at once and bowed formally. 

"At least, " he said, "such a matter is not to interrupt ourfriendship, Madame. "

"It is for you to say, " she answered, smiling faintly. He laughed, pressed her hand, and bade her good-night, leaving her with morematter for thought than he could have suspected. 

There was real cheering for her that night when she left the theatre. Truda had been cheered before in many cities; but that night she tooknote of it, looking with attention at the thrusting crowd collectedto applaud her. It filled the square, restless as a sea under thetall lamps; rank upon rank of shadow-barred faces showed themselves, vociferous and unanimous--a crowd in a good temper. She bowed inacknowledgment of the shouts, but her face was grave, for she wastaking account of what it meant to be alone amid an alien multitude, sharing none of its motives and emotions. The fat coachman edged hishorses through the men that blocked the way, till there was space togo ahead, and the cheers, steady and unflagging, followed her out ofsight. 

The baby was in bed when she arrived at her hotel; Truda paid a briefvisit to its side, then ordered that her manager should be summoned, and sat down to write a note. It was to the big young Jew, the baby'suncle; she had a shrewd notion that Monsieur Vaucher would be able tolay hands on him. The note was brief: "I fear there will be morepersecutions. The Governor can do nothing. When there is anotherattack on our people send to me. Send to me without fail, for I haveone resource left. "

"You can find the man?" she demanded of Vaucher. 

The little hardened Frenchman was still under the spell of heracting. 

"Madame, " he said grandly, "I can do anything you desire. He shallhave the note to-night. "

Poor Monsieur Vaucher, the charred remains of a man of sentiment, preserving yet a spark or two of the soft fire! Could he have knownthe contents of that note and their significance, with what fervor ofrefusal he would have cast it back at her! But he knew nothing, savethat Truda's acting restored to him sometimes for an hour or two theemotions of his youth, and he was very much her servant. It was inthe spirit of devotion and service that he called a droshky, andfared out to the crooked streets of the Jewish quarter to do hiserrand. It was a fine soft night, with a clear sky of stars, andMonsieur Vaucher enjoyed the drive. And as he went, jolting over thecobbles of the lesser streets, he suffered himself to recall thegreat scene of that night's play--a long slow situation of a woman atbay, opposing increasing odds with increasing spirit--and experiencedagain his thrill. 

"Ah, " he murmured over his cigar; "the Schottelius, she has the senseof climax!"

And so he duly delivered the note and returned to the hotel and bed, a man content with the conduct of his own world. 

Things went well with Truda and Vaucher and all the company for thenext two days. Never had she been so amenable to those who chargedthemselves with her interests, never so generally and mildly amiableto those who had to live at her orders. But none of those who came incontact with her failed to observe a new note in her manner. It wasnot that she was softer or gentler; rather it seemed that she wasmore remote, something absent and thoughtful, with a touch ofraptness that lent the true air of inspiration to her acting. Herspare time she spent with the baby--she and Marie, her maid, playingwith it, making a plaything of it, ministering to it, and obeying it. It had never cried once since Truda had taken it in her arms, butadapted itself with the soundest skill to its surroundings andcompanions. 

"I found it ten years too late, " said Truda once. 

Her maid looked at her curiously. 

"It is surprising that Madame should not have found one before, " shesaid. 

Those two days were placid and full of peace, quiet with the lull ofemptiness. But in them Truda did not forget. She was realizingherself, and her capacity to deal with a situation that would not bedevised to show her talents. She felt that she stood, for the firsttime, on the threshold of brisk, perilous, actual life, of that lifewhich was burlesqued, exaggerated, in the plays in which she acted. It was expectancy that softened her eyes and lit her face withdreams--expectancy and exhilaration. 

She was about to be born into the world. 

The summons came suddenly on the evening of the second day. Even asshe drove to the theatre, Truda had noted how the streets wereuneasy, how men stood about in groups and were in the first stages ofdrunkenness. The play that night was that harrowing thing La Tosca;she was dressed for her part when the word came, written on a scrapof paper: "It is to-night. I am waiting at the stage door. " Shepondered for a few moments over it, then reached for her cloak anddrew it on over her brilliant stage dress. 

"Find Vaucher, " she said to her maid. "Tell him I cannot play to-night. He must put on my understudy. Say I am ill. "

The maid, startled out of her composure, threw up her hands. 

"But, Madame----!" she cried. 

Truda waved her aside. "Lose no time, " she ordered. "Tell Vaucher Iam ill. And then go back to the baby. "

She wasted no more words on the woman, but swept forth from the roomand down the draughty ill-lit passage to the stage-door. Itsguardian, staggered at her appearance, let her out; on the pavementoutside, muffled to the eyes like a man that evades observation, wasthe big young Jew. He was gazing out over the square; her fingers onhis arm made him look round with a start. 

"I am here, " she said. "Now tell me. "

With eyes that glanced about warily while he spoke, he told herquickly, in low tones of haste. 

"There is a mob gathering again at the market, " he said. "Two spirit-shops have been broken open. That is how it begins always. Some Jewswho were found in the street were beaten to death; soon they willmove down to the Jewish streets, and then"--his breath came harshthrough set teeth--"then murder and looting--the old programme. NowI have told you; can you do anything?"

"Let us find a droshky, " said Truda, "and go to the Jewish quarter. "

"A droshky!" He stared at her. "Do you think any driver will take usthere to-night?"

"Then we can walk, " said Truda; "show the way. If we stay here anylonger, I shall be seen and prevented. "

He hesitated an instant; then set off sharply, so that now and againshe had to run a few paces to keep up with him. He took her round bythe back of the theatre and into a muddle of streets that led thence. The quiet of the night closed about them; Truda was embarked upon herpurpose. 

"How can you help?" asked the young man again. "Tell me what you willdo?"

"Me?" said Truda. "For to-night I can do nothing; I am not an army. But I think that after to-night there will be no more Judenhetze inthis city. That is what I think. For, after all, I am theSchottelius; people know me and set a value on me, and if harm comesto me there will be a reckoning. "

He was looking down sideways on her as she spoke. 

"Is that all?" he asked. 

"All!" cried Truda, and braced herself to subdue his doubts. "All! Itis enough, and more than enough. Have I come so far without knowingwhat will rouse my audience?" She slowed her steps, and he slowed tokeep by her side. She lifted her clear face proudly. "I tell you, "she said, "the part I am to play to-night will move Europe to itscore. Paris! Berlin! Vienna! Even cautious prim London! I have themunder my hand; even to-morrow they will be asking an account, cryingfor the heads of the wrongdoers on a charger. And you ask me if thatis all!"

"You do not know, " he said. "To-night, it is not a play; it is lifeand death. "

"But to-morrow it is life!" she retorted. "Let us go on; we must notbe late. "

They came by roundabout ways at last to that little groups ofstreets, beyond the jail and the markets, where the Jews had theirhomes. Here were tall brick houses overshadowing narrow streets ill-lit by infrequent lamps, little shops closely shuttered, courtyardswith barred gates. Over the roofs there rose against the sky theclustered spires and domes of a typical Russian church, flanking thequarter on the south. The streets were empty; they met no one; andthe young man led her to a courtyard in which, perhaps, a couple ofhundred Jews were gathered, waiting. His knock brought a face to thetop of the wall, and after a parley the great gate was opened wideenough to let them slip through. When they were in, Truda touched hercompanion. 

"Would I be here for a fancy?" she whispered. "Believe what I say:after this there shall be no Judenhetze. "

The courtyard was a large one, penned between a couple of houses, andseparated from the street by the wall which the great gate pierced. From it half a dozen doors led into the houses, each a possible roadof escape when the hour should come. Truda looked about her calmly. 

The people were standing about in large groups--men, women, andchildren--and they spoke in whispers among themselves. But all ofthem were listening; each sound from without stiffened them to scaredattention. From somewhere distant there traveled a dull noise ofshouts and singing, a confused blatancy of far voices; and as itswelled and sank and swelled again, a tremor ran over that silentwaiting throng like a wind-ripple on standing crops. Overhead thesky shone with pin-point stars; a breath of air stirred about themfaintly; all seemed keyed to that tense furtive quiet of the doomedJews. Not a child cried, not a woman sobbed; they had learned, direfully enough, the piteous art of the oppressed--the knack ofsilence and concealment. 

It was by slow degrees that the distant shoutings came nearer; themob had yet to unite in purpose and ferocity. Truda, listening, andmarking its approach, could almost tell by the violence of its noisehow it wound through the streets, staggering drunkenly, wavingbludgeons, working itself to the necessary point of brutal fury. Andalways it grew nearer. Its note changed and deepened, till it sank toa long snarling drone; she, wise in the moods of men in the mass, apracticer on the minds of multitudes, knew the moment was at hand;this was the voice of human beings with the passions of beasts. Thenoise dwindled as the mob poured through an alley, and then broke outagain, loud and daunting, as it emerged. It was near at hand; nowthere was added to its voice the drum of its footsteps on cobble-paved streets, and suddenly, brief and agonizing, a wild outcry ofshrieks as some wretched creature was found out of hiding and thebludgeons beat it out of human semblance. All round Truda there was astir among the Jews; a child wrought beyond endurance whimpered andwas gagged under an apron; the howl of the mob startled her ears asit poured along the street outside the great gate. 

Then came confusion, a chaos of voices, of ringing blows upon thegate, screams and moans, the shrill sound of the glee that goes withopen murder, and a sudden light that shot up against the sky from ahouse on fire. The crowd of Jews in the courtyard thinned as someslipped swiftly into the dark doorways to be ready for flight, startled by a tattoo of blows on the gate that broke out abruptly. Truda stood fast where she was, listening with a kind of detachment. The blows on the gate increased; she could even hear, among the othersounds, the heavy breathing of those who strove to break a way in. Men came running to aid them, and the stout gate bent under theirefforts. It was fastened within by an iron bar lying in socketsacross it; with an interest that was almost idle she saw how thesesockets, one by one, were yielding and let the bar go loose. Onebroke off with a sharp crack, and sent the rest of the Jews racing tothe dark doorways. Truda loosened her cloak and let it fall about herfeet, and stood up alone, vivid in the dancing light of the burninghouse, in saffron and white. She moved deliberate hands over her hairand patted a loose strand into its place. Another rending crash; sheset her hand on her hip and stood still. The door yielded and sprangback. There was a raw yell, and the mob was in. 

Prince Sarasin was again in his box when Monsieur Vaucher, broken inspirit and looking bleak and old, came before the curtain to announcethat owing to circumstances--unforeseen circumstances--of a--apeculiar nature, Madame Schottelius would be unable to appear thatnight, and her place would be taken, etc. The announcement was notwell received, and nobody was less pleased than the Prince. He knithis heavy brows in a scowl as poor Vaucher sidled back to obscurity, and thought rapidly. His thoughts, and what he knew of the night'sprogramme in the Jewish quarter of his city, carried him round to thestage door, with his surprised aide-de-camp at his heels. 

Monsieur Vaucher, tearful and impotent, was at his service. 

"Never before has she played me such a trick, " he lamented. "Ill!Why, I have known her go on and make a success when she was illenough to keep another woman in bed. It is a trick; she is not evenat the hotel. No one knows where she is. "

The Governor, his last interview with Truda fresh in hisrecollection, asked curt questions. He was a man of direct mind. Inless time than one might have supposed from the condition of poorVaucher, he had elicited some outstanding facts--the note which Trudahad sent to the Jewish quarter among them. The keeper of the stage-door added the little he knew. Prince Sarasin turned to his aide. 

"Dragoons, " he ordered. "Half a squadron. I shall be at the barracksin ten minutes, when they must be ready. Go at once. "

The aide-de-camp, who knew the Prince, recognized that this was anoccasion for speed. When the Prince, mounted, arrived at thebarracks, the dragoons were drawn up-awaiting him. He moved them offtowards the Jewish quarter at the trot. The streets echoed theirhoof-beats, and little time elapsed before they were on the skirts ofthe mob. The Prince spurred alongside a watching police-officer. 

"A lady!" repeated the officer, in amazement. "I have seen no lady, your Excellency. But the principal--er--disorder is in the streetbehind the church. The Jews are making no resistance at all. "

The Prince pushed on, and came with his dragoons at the rear of themob. With a fine Russian callousness he thrust into it, his horsesclearing a way for themselves and bowling men to right and left. Thestreet was in darkness and resounded with violence. Standing in hisstirrups and peering ahead, the Prince realized that he might rideTruda down without ever seeing her. 

He leaned back and caught his aide-de-camp by the arm. 

"We must have light, " he shouted. "Dismount a dozen men and fire ahouse. "

At the order, men swung from their saddles, and in a few minutes thehouse was ablaze; its windows, red with fire, cast a dancing glow onthe tumult of the street. They pressed on, the fire sparkling ontheir accoutrements, and on the housetops cowering Jews broke intotremblings at a wild hope that here was salvation. The Prince peeredanxiously about, unconcerned at all the savagery that was unloosenedto each side of him. He did not pause to aid a woman draggedshrieking from a doorway by the hair, nor look back at that otherscream when a dragoon, unmanned and overwrought, reined from theranks and cut her assailant down. 

At one point the crowd was thick about the gate of a walledcourtyard, thundering on it with crowbars and axes; here, again, thePrince paused to look sharply among them, lest somewhere there mightbe a brown head and a pale clear-cut face that he sought. Even as hetightened his bridle, the gate gave rendingly; he turned his head asthe mob, roaring, poured in. For the space of perhaps a second he satmotionless and stricken, but it was long enough to see what he neverforgot--a woman, composed, serene, bright against her dark backgroundin the shifting light of the burning house, gay in saffron and white. Then the mob surged before her and hid her, and his voice returned tohim. 

"Charge!" he roared, and tore his sword out. 

The dragoons, eager enough, followed him; the courtyard overflowedwith them as their great horses thundered in at the gate, and thelong swords got to their work on that packed and cornered throng. There were swift bitter passages as the troopers cleared the place--episodes such as only Jews knew till then, ghastly killings of menwho crawled among the horses' feet and were hunted out to beslaughtered. And in the middle of it, the Prince was on his knees, holding up a brown head in the crook of his arm, seeing nothing ofthe butchery at his elbow. 

It was when the killing was done, and the dragoons were clearing thestreet, that there arrived on tiptoe Monsieur Vaucher, searchingthrough tears for Madame. When he saw her he ceased to weep, butstood looking down, with his hands clasped behind his back. 

"Dead?" he asked abruptly. 

The Prince glanced up. "Yes, " he answered. 

"Ah!" Monsieur Vaucher pondered. "Who killed her?" he askedpresently. 

"Look!" said the Prince, and motioned with one hand to the dragoons'leavings, the very silent citizens who lay about on the flagstones. 

"Ah!" said Vaucher again. "And to-morrow the world will ask for anaccount. It is not wise to destroy a great genius like this, here ina corner of your dirty town. That is what you have to learn. "

"Yes, " said the Prince. "We shall learn something now. She gave herlife to teach it. There will be no more Judenhetze in this city. "

"Her life to teach it, " repeated Monsieur Vaucher. "She gave herlife. " His composure failed him suddenly, and he fell on his knees onthe other side of what had been Truda Schottelius, weeping openly. 

"She never failed, " he said. "She never failed. A great artist, Monsieur, the Schottelius! She--she had the sense of climax!"

From the windows of the houses above them, scared curious Jews lookeddown uncomprehendingly. 

III

THE TRADER OF LAST NOTCH

In Manicaland, summer wears the livery of the tropics. At the foot ofthe hills north of Macequece every yard of earth is vocal with life, and the bush is brave with color. Where the earth shows it is red, asthough a wound bled. The mimosas have not yet come to flower, butamid their delicate green--the long thorns, straight or curved likeclaws, gleam with the flash of silver. Palms poise aloft, brilliantand delicate, and under foot, flowers are abroad. The flame-blossomblazes in scarlet. The sangdieu burns in sullen vermilion. Insectsfill the world with the noise of their business--spiders, butterflies, and centipedes, ants, beetles, and flies, and mysteriousentities that crawl nameless under foot. A pea-hen shrieks in thegrass, and a kite whistles aloft. A remote speck in the sky denotes awatchful vulture, alert for any mishap to the citizens of the woods, and a crash of twigs may mean anything from a buck to a rhinoceros. There is a hectic on the face of nature. 

The trader of Last Notch went homewards to his store through such amaze of urgent life, and panted in the heat. He had been out to shootguinea-fowl, had shot none and expended all his cartridges, and hisgun, glinting in the strong light as he walked, was heavy to hisshoulder and hot to his hand. His mood was one of patient protest, for the sun found him an easy prey and he had yet some miles to go. Where another man would have said: "Damn the heat, " and done with it, John Mills, the trader, tasted the word on his lips, forbore to slipit, and counted it to himself for virtue. He set a large value onrestraint, which, in view of his strength and resolute daring, wasperhaps not wholly false. He was a large man, more noticeable for asturdy solidness of proportion than for height, and his strong facewas won to pleasantness by a brown beard, which he wore "navy fash. "His store, five big huts above the kloof known as Last Notch, was atthe heart of a large Kafir population; and the natives, agriculturists by convention and warriors between whiles, patronizedhim very liberally. The Englishmen and Portuguese of the countryheld him in favor, and he enjoyed that esteem which a strong quietman, who has proved himself to have reserves of violence, commonlywins from turbulent neighbors. 

He was trying for a short cut home, and purposed to wade the Revueriver wherever he should strike it. Over the low bush about him hecould see his hills yet a couple of hours off, and he sighed forthirst and extreme discomfort. No one, he knew, lived thereabouts--noone, at least, who was likely to have whisky at hand, though, for thematter of that, he would have welcomed a hut and a draught of Kafiritywala. His surprise was the greater, then, when there appeared fromthe growth beside his path as white a man as himself, a tall, somewhat ragged figure--but rags tell no news at all in Manicaland--who wore a large black moustache and smiled affably on him. 

He noted that the stranger was a fine figure of a man, tall and slim, with clear dark eyes and tanned face, and he saw, too, that he wore aheavy Webley on his right hip. The newcomer continued to smile asMills scanned him over, and waited for the trader to speak first. 

"Hullo!" said Mills at length. 

"'Ullo!" replied the stranger, smiling still. He had a capitalsmile, and Mills was captivated into smiling in sympathy. 

"Who may you be?" he asked agreeably; "didn't expect to meet no whitemen about here. Where's your boys?"

The tall man waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the coast, asthough to imply that he had carriers somewhere in that part of theworld. 

"Yais, " he said pleasantly. "An' you are Jone Mills, eh?"

"That's me, " said Mills promptly, lowering the butt of his gun to theground and resting both hands on the muzzle. The stranger startedslightly, but did not cease to smile. 

"I don't seem to know you, " pondered Mills. "I can't fix you atall. "

"Ah, but you will. Le' me see. Was it Beira, eh?"

Mills shook his head decidedly. "I never was in Beira, " he said. 

"Not Beira?" queried the stranger. "Oh, but surelee. No? Well, Mandega's, per'aps?"

"Mandega's? Yes, I was there for a bit. I had a block of claims onthe ditch, next to old Jimmy Ryan's. "

"Ah yais, " said the tall man eagerly. "I know 'im. An' there youshoot the Intendente, not? That was ver' fine. I see you coom downall quiet, an' shoot 'im in the 'ead. It was done ver' naice, eh!"

Mills's face darkened. "He was robbin' me, the swine, " he answered. "He'd been robbin' me for six months. But that's nobody's businessbut mine, and anyhow I didn't shoot him in the head. It was in thechest. An' now, who the blazes are you?"

"You do' know me?" smiled the stranger; "but I know you. Oh, ver'well. I see you ver' often. You see. My name is Jacques. "

"Jack what?" demanded Mills. 

"Not Jack--Jacques. Tha's all. All the people call me Frenchy, eh?You don' remember?"

"No, " said Mills thoughtfully; "but then I seen a good many chaps, and I'd be like to forget some o' them. You doin' anything roundhere?"

The man who called himself Jacques held up a finger. "Ah, you wan' toknow, eh? Well, I don' tell you. I fin' anything, I don' tell all thepeople; I don' blow the gaff. I sit still, eh? I lie low, eh? I keep'im all for me, eh? You see?"

"Well, of course, " agreed Mills; "struck a pocket, I suppose. Ishouldn't have thought you'd have found much here. But then, ofcourse, you're not going to give your game away. Where's your camp? Icould do with a drink. "

"Back there, " said the Frenchman, pointing in the direction whenceMills had come. "'Bout five miles. You don' wan' to come, eh? Toofar, eh?"

"Yes, I reckon it's too far, " replied Mills. "I'm not more than fourmiles from my own kia now. You goin' on?"

"Yais, " agreed the Frenchman. "I go a leetle bit. Not too far, eh!"

They moved on through the bush. Mills shifted his; gun from shoulderto shoulder, and suffered still from heat and sweat. His tallercompanion went more easily, striding along as Mills thought, glancingat him, "like a fox. " The warmth appeared not to distress him in theleast. 

"By Jove, " exclaimed the trader. "You're the build of man for thisblooming country. You travel as if you was born to it. Don't the heattrouble you at all?"

"Oh no, " answered the Frenchman carelessly. "You see, I come from a'ot country. In France it is ver' often 'ot. But you don' like it, eh?"

"No, " said the trader, with emphasis. "I was after pea-hen, or youwouldn't see me out this time o' the day. English chaps can't standit. "

"Eh?"

"English chaps can't stand it, I said, " repeated Mills. "They mos'lylie up till it's cooler. "

"Ah yais. "

They were now nearing the river. A steam rose over the bushes andspiraled into the air, and the hum of water going slowly was audible. A few minutes of walking brought them to its banks. The stream flowedgreasily and dark, some forty yards wide, but in the middle it forkedabout a spit of sand not more than ten paces broad. It was a veryLethe of a river, running oilily and with a slumberous sound, and itsreputation for crocodiles was vile. 

Mills sat down and began to pull off his boots. 

"As well here as anywhere, " he said. "I'll try it, anyhow. "

"I go back now, " said the Frenchman. "Some day I come up an' seeyou, eh? You like that?"

"Come along any time, " replied Mills cheerfully as he slung his bootsacross his shoulders. "You don't think that island's a quicksand, eh?"

The Frenchman turned and stared at it. "I do' know, " he answered. "Per'aps. You goin' to try, eh?"

"Yes, I'll have a shot at it. You can mos'ly trust yourself on 'em ifyou walk light an' quick. But we'll see. "

The Frenchman watched him as he waded out. The black water reached nohigher than his knees, but the ground was soft under foot, and hefloundered anxiously. 

"It sucks at you, " he called. "It's all greasy. "

He moved on, and came to the sand island. 

"It's better here, " he called. "I'll be all right now. "

The Frenchman jumped to his feet. 

"Look out!" he shouted, gesticulating violently. "You go down; walkoff 'im!"

Mills glanced down, and saw that the creeping sand had him knee-deep. He dragged his right foot forth and plunged forward, but with theaction his left leg sank to the crutch, and he only kept his balancewith a violent effort. 

The Frenchman danced on the bank. "Throw you' gun down, " he shouted. "Throw you' boots down. You' in to the waist now. Push yo'self backto the water. Push hard. "

He wrung his hands together with excitement. 

Mills threw down his gun, and the sand swallowed it at once. Heturned his head to the man at the bank. 

"It's no good, chum, " he said quietly. "I reckon you better take ashot at me with that revolver. "

The sand was in his armpits. The Frenchman ceased to jump and wringhis hands, and smiled at him oddly. Mills, in the midst of histrouble, felt an odd sense of outraged propriety. The smile, hereflected, was ill-timed--and he was sinking deeper. 

"What you grinning at?" he gasped. "Shoot, can't you?"

"I coom pull you out, " said the Frenchman, fumbling at the buckle ofhis belt, and he forthwith stepped into the water. 

He waded swiftly to within five feet of the sinking man, and flunghim the end of the belt. Mills failed to catch it, and the Frenchmanshifted his feet cautiously and flung again. 

"Now, " he shouted as the trader gripped it, "catch 'old tight, " andhe started to drag him bodily forwards. 

"Careful, " cried Mills; "you're sinking!"

The Frenchman stepped free hastily, and strained on the belt again. Mills endeavored to kick with his entombed legs, and called a warningas his rescuer sunk in the sands. Thus they wrestled, and at lengthMills found his head in the water and his body free. 

He rose, and they waded to the bank. 

"Of all the quicksands I ever saw, " said the trader slowly, as he satdown and gazed at the place that had so nearly been his grave, "thatone's the worst. "

"'Orrid, " agreed the Frenchman, smiling amicably. "You was ver' nearburied, eh?"

"Yes, " said the trader thoughtfully. "I suppose anyone 'ud say yousaved my life, Frenchy. "

"Yea, " replied the other. 

"Exactly, " said Mills. "Well there's my hand for you, Frenchy. Youdone me a good turn. I'll do as much for you one of these days. "

"Eh?" said the Frenchman as he shook hands. 

"You've got a nasty habit of saying 'Eh?'" retorted the trader. "Isaid I'd do as much for you one of these days. Comprenny?"

"Oh yais, " smiled the Frenchman. "I think you will. Tha's all right. "

"Well, " said Mills, "I wish you'd come up and see me at my kia. Sureyou can't come now?"

"Yais, I coom now, " answered the other. 

Mills stared. "'Fraid you can't trust me to go alone, are you?" hequeried. "'Cause, if so----"

"Tha's all right, " interrupted the Frenchman. "I coom now. "

"Right you are, " said Mills heartily. "Come along then!"

They strode off in the direction of the drift, Mills goingthoughtfully, with an occasional glance at his companion. TheFrenchman smiled perpetually, and once he laughed out. 

"What's the joke?" demanded the trader. 

"I think I do a good piece of business to-day, " replied theFrenchman. 

"H'm, yes, " continued Mills suspiciously. 

It was a longish uphill walk to the trader's store, and the nightfell while they were yet on the way. With the darkness came a breeze, cool and refreshing; the sky filled with sharp points of light, andthe bush woke with a new life. The crackle of their boots on thestiff grass as they walked sent live things scattering to left andright, and once a night-adder hissed malevolently at the Frenchman'sheel. They talked little as they went, but Mills noticed that now andagain his companion appeared to check a laugh. He experienced afeeling of vague indignation against the man who had saved his life;he was selfish in not sharing his point of view and the thoughtswhich amused him. At times reserve can be the most selfish thingimaginable, and one might as well be reticent on a desert island asin Manicaland. Moreover, despite the tolerant manners of the country, Mills was conscious of something unexplained in his companion--something which engendered a suspicion on general grounds. 

The circle of big dome-shaped huts which constituted the store ofLast Notch came into view against a sky of dull velvet as theybreasted the last rise. The indescribable homely smell of a wood-firegreeted the nostrils with the force of a spoken welcome. They couldhear the gabble of the Kafirs at their supper and the noise of theirshrill, empty laughter. 

"That's home, " said Mills, breaking a long silence. 

"Yais, " murmured the Frenchman; "'ome, eh? Yais. Ver' naice. "

"You may say what you like, " continued the trader aggressively. "Homeis something. Though never so 'umble, ye know, there's no place likehome. "

"Tha's all right, " assented the other gaily. "I know a man name'Albert Smith, an' 'e sing that in the jail at Beira. Sing all thenight till I stop 'im with a broom. Yais. "

Mills grunted, and they entered the skoff kia--the largest of thehuts, sacred to the uses of a dining-room. It contained two canvaschairs, a camp table, a variety of boxes to sit upon, and somepicture-paper illustration on the mud wall. A candle in a bottleilluminated it, and a bird in the thatch overhead twittered volublyat their presence. Some tattered books lay in the corner. 

They washed in the open air, sluicing themselves from buckets, anddressed again in clean dungarees in another hut. 

"Skoff (food) 'll be ready by now, " said Mills; "but I think agargle's the first thing. You'll have whisky, or gin?"

The Frenchman pronounced for whisky, and took it neat. Mills stared. 

"If I took off a dose like that, " he observed, "I should be as drunkas an owl. You know how to shift it!"

"Eh?"

"Gimme patience, " prayed the trader. "You bleat like a yowe. I saidyou can take it, the drink. Savvy? Wena poosa meningi sterrik. Havesome more?"

"Oh yais, " smiled the guest. "Ver' good w'isky, eh?"

He tossed off another four fingers of the liquor, and they sat downto their meal. The food was such as most tables in Manicalandoffered. Everything was tinned, and the menu ran the gamut of ediblesfrom roast capon (cold) to pate de foie gras in a pot. When they hadfinished Mills passed over his tobacco and sat back. He watched theother light up and blow a white cloud, and then spoke. 

"Look here, Frenchy, " he said, looking at him steadily; "I don'tquite cotton to you, and I think it proper you should say a bit morethan you have said. "

"Eh!" queried the other, smiling. 

Mills glowered, but restrained himself. "I want to know who you are, and I guess I mean to know too, so out with it!"

"Ah yais, " replied the Frenchman, and removed his pipe from hismouth. He trimmed the bowl fastidiously with his thumb, smiling thewhile. Of a sudden he looked up, and the smile was gone. He gaveMills back a look as purposeful as his own. 

"I'm the man that save' you in the river, " he said meaningly. 

"Well, " began the trader hotly, but stopped. 

"That's true, " he answered thoughtfully, as though speaking tohimself. "Yes, that's true. You've got me, Frenchy. "

"Yais, " went on the Frenchman, leaning forward across the table, andspeaking with an emphasis that was like an insult. "You sink there inthe sand. I stop and save you. I stop, you see, although the men fromMacequece coom after me and want to kill me. "

"But I don' run away; I don' say to you, 'I can' stop. You go down;you die. ' I don' say that. I stop. I save you. An' now you say to me, 'Frenchy, 'oo the 'ell are you?' Yais. "

Mills shrugged protestingly. The appeal was to the core of hisnature; the demand was one he could not dishonor. 

"I didn't say just that, " he urged. "But what are the chaps fromMacequece after you for?"

"Tha's all right, " replied the Frenchman with a wave of his hand. "You say, 'Frenchy, I don' like you. Dam' you, Frenchy!' Ver' well. The men coom, you give me to them. They shoot me. Tha's all right;yais!"

He replaced his pipe and commenced again to smoke with an expressionof weary indifference. 

"I'm not that sort, " said Mills. "I'm open to admit I didn't quitetake to you--at first. I can't say fairer than that. But tell me whatyou done to rile the chaps. Did you kill a bloke, or what?"

"Jone Mills, " said the Frenchman "Jone Mills shoot the Intendente atMandega's. Kill 'im dead. Dead as pork. They don' chase Jone Mills. They don' wan' to shoot Jone Mills. No. Frenchy--po' ol' Frenchy--'eshoot a man in Macequece. Shoot 'im dead. Dead as pork. Then theyall coom after 'im. Wan' to shoot 'im. An' po' ol' Frenchy, 'e stopto pull Jone Mills out of the river. 'E save Jone Mills. Jone squeakan' say, 'Shoot me quick befo' I choke. ' But Frenchy stop an' pull'im out. Yais. An' then they shoot Frenchy. Yais!" He blew a hugevolume of smoke and lay back serenely. 

"Look 'ere, Frenchy, " cried Mills, stretching his hand across thetable, "I'm in this. They won't catch you here, old son. Savvy?There's my hand for you. "

"Eh?"

"There's my hand, I'm tellin' you. Shake hands, old son. You may be ahard case, but you did save my life, and it's up to me to see youthrough. We'll be able to call quits then. "

The Frenchman rose with a serious face, and the two shook hands overthe candle. The Frenchman held Mills's hand a moment longer. 

"I know you, " he said. "You do' know me. I trust you, Jone. I knowyo' a good man. "

He sat back again, and Mills turned matters over. In that roughcommunity no man would own himself devoid of gratitude. "I'll do asmuch for you" was the common acknowledgment of a favor. It appearedto Mills that his new acquaintance might be a precious scoundrel, butthat point was not at present in issue, and there remained a debt tobe satisfied before he could raise it. The knowledge that Frenchy hadshot a man did not trouble him in the least, so long as theaccompanying circumstances and the motive were in accordance with thesimple standards of Manicaland. Here came in the doubt, engendered bynothing more concrete or citable than a trifle of mystery in theman's manner, and some undefined quality that disagreed with thetrader. He glanced over to him; the Frenchman was blowing rings ofsmoke and smiling at them. There was nothing in his face but innocentand boyish amusement. 

"Gad, you're a cool hand!" exclaimed Mills. "How d'you reckon webetter work it?"

"I do' know, " replied the other indifferently. 

"You don't, eh? Well, d'you think they'll follow you all night?"

"I don' think, " said the Frenchman, with confidence and a swelling ofhis chest--"I don' think they wan' to meet me in the night. Not ver'naice eh? Leetle dangerous. "

"H'm. You've got a bit of an opinion of yerself, anyhow. If that'sall right, it'll be time enough to clear by daylight. Did you boltjust as you are--no niggers, no skoff, no anything?"

"No time, " was the answer. "So I coom out-with-out everything. Justlike this. "

"I can get you a couple of niggers, " mused Mills, "an' you'll want agun. Then, with skoff for a fortnight, you ought to be up at theMazoe before they find your spoor. What do you think?"

"I think i's ver' naice, " smiled the other. 

"Then we'll hamba lala" (go to sleep), said Mills rising. "I don'tknow how you feel, but I'm just done up. "

A bed was soon fixed for the Frenchman, who retired with a light-hearted "goo' night. " Mills, keeping full in view his guest's awkwardposition, and the necessity for packing him off at daylight, determined not to sleep. He went out of the kraal and listened to thenight. It spoke with a thousand voices; the great factory of days andnights was in full swing; but he caught no sound of human approach, and returned to the huts to prepare his guest's kit for thedeparture. He found and partially cleaned an old rifle, and unpackeda generous donation of cartridges. Meal for the carriers, blanketsand tinned meats for the Frenchman, were all at hand. Candles, alantern, matches, gin, a pannikin, a pair of pots, and so on, sooncompleted the outfit. Packing is generally an interesting operation, and Mills was an expert in it. He forgot most of his perplexity andill-ease as he adjusted the bundles and measured the commodities. Hehad the whole of the gear spread out on the floor of the skoff kiawhen a voice accosted him. 

"You needn't bother no more, Jack, " it said softly. 

A man tiptoed in. He was short and lightly built, and carried asporting rifle in his hand. His reddish moustache was draggled withdew and his clothes were soaked in it. He looked at Mills withgleeful blue eyes. 

"Where's Frenchy?" he asked softly. 

Mills labored to express surprise. "What're you talkin' about?" hedemanded loudly. 

"Don't shout, blast yer!" whispered the other vehemently. "We saw yergo up 'ere together, Jack, and nobody ain't gone away since. There'sfive of us, Jack, and we want that swine--we want 'im bad. "

"What for?" asked Mills desperately, without lowering his voice. 

The other made an impatient gesture for silence, but his words werearrested by a clamor in the yard. There were shouts and curses andthe sound of blows. 

"We've got him, Charley, " shouted some one triumphantly. 

The smaller man rushed out, and Mills followed swiftly. There was ablackness of moving forms in the open, and some one struck a match. The man called Charley stepped forward. Mills saw the face and handof a man standing upright, brilliantly illuminated by the flame ofthe match; and on the ground three men, who knelt on and about aprostrate figure. One was busy with some cord. In the backgroundstood Mills's Kafirs. The match burned down to the holder's fingers, and he dropped it. 

"Well, Dave, " said Mills, "what's the meanin' o' this game o' yours--comin' to a man's kia in the middle o' the night and ropin' his mateout o' bed?"

The man who had lit the match laughed. "That you, Jack?" he said. "Well, you wouldn't be so ready to call this bloke 'mate' if you knewwhat he'd been up to. "

"The--swine!" commented Charley. 

"Get a lantern, " commanded Mills to the Kafirs. "What d'you mean?" heasked of the tall man. 

"He shot a woman, " said Dave. The tone was eloquent of the speaker'srage and disgust. 

Mills stared open-mouthed. "A woman!" he gasped. 

"A woman, " replied Dave. "Shot her, as bold as the devil, on thestreet, in the daytime, and did a bolt for the bush. Every man thatcould put foot to the ground is out after him. "

A kafir arrived then with the lantern Mills had designed for theFrenchman, and by its light he was able to see the faces of the men. They were all known to him. The man who was cording the prisoner'sarms had seen his daring work at Mandega's. He knelt on the prostrateform as he worked, and the Frenchman's face showed like a waxen maskon the ground. Blood was running from a deep cut on his cheek. 

"I save yo' life, Jone, " he gasped. 

"Shut up!" snapped one of the men, and struck him on the mouth. 

"Here, " protested Mills; "go slow, can't you, There's no call to banghim about. "

They stared at him with astonishment. "Why, man, " exclaimed Charley, "didn't we tell you he shot a woman?"

"What's that he said about savin' your life?" demanded Dave. 

"He did, " explained Mills. He told them the story, and they listenedwithout sympathy. 

"It was a bloomin' plucky thing to do, " concluded the trader. "I'dha' bin dead by now but for him, and I owe 'im one for it. "

"Oh, nobody's sayin' he isn't plucky, " said the man who had 'beentying the Frenchman's arms, as he rose to his feet. "He's the dare-devillist swine alive, but he's done with it now. "

Dave came round and clapped Mills on the shoulder. 

"It's worked you a bit soft, old man, " he said. "Why, hang it all, you wouldn't have us let him go after shooting a woman, would you?"

"Oh! stow it, " broke in one of the others. "If it wasn't that 'e'sgot to go back to Macequece to be shot, I'd blow his head off now. "

"I'm not asking you to let him go, " cried Mills. "But give the blokea chance, give 'im a run for it. Why, I wouldn't kill a dog so; it'sawful--an'--an'--he saved my life, chaps; he saved my life. "

"But he shot a woman, " said Charley. 

That closed the case--the man had committed the ultimate crime. Nothing could avail him now. He had shot a woman--he must suffer. 

"Jone, " moaned the Frenchman--the cords were eating into his flesh--"Jone, I saved yo' life. "

"Why couldn't you tell me?" cried Mills passionately; "why couldn'tyou trust me? I could ha' got you away. "

"That'll do, " interrupted Dave, thrusting Mills aside. "We'll troubleyou for a drink and a bite, old boy, an' then we'll start back. "

Mills led the way to the skoff kia in silence. There was food anddrink still on the table, and the men sat down to it at once. TheFrenchman lay in the middle of the kraal, bound; his captors' weaponslay at their feet. He was as effectually a prisoner as if their fivebarrels were covering him. Mills stood moodily watching the men eat, his brain drumming on the anguished problem of the Frenchman's lifeor death without effort or volition on his part. 

"Got any more poosa, old boy?" asked Dave, setting down the whisky-bottle empty. 

"Yes, " said Mills thoughtfully. "Plenty. " He shouted for a boy, andone came running. 

"Go to the store-hut, " ordered Mills slowly, "and bring a bottle ofwhisky. " He spoke the "kitchen-Kafir" that every one in Manicalandunderstands. 

"Yes, bass, " said the native. 

"But first, " said Mills, still speaking slowly and quietly, "take aknife and cut loose the man on the ground. Quick!" The last word wasa shout. 

Dave sprang to his feet and stood motionless. The others werearrested in the action of rising or reaching their weapons. From thewall beside him Mills had reached a revolver and held them covered. The barrel moved over them, presenting its black threatful mouth toone after the other. It moved in jerks, but not without purpose. Itheld them all subject, and the first movement doomed. 

"Jack!" cried Dave. 

"Shut up!" commanded Mills. "Don't move now. For God's sake don'tmove. I'll shoot the first one that does. "

"He shot a woman, " they protested. 

"He saved my life, " said Mills. "Are you'all right, Frenchy?"

"Yais, " came the answer, and with it the ghost of a laugh. 

Mills did not look round, and the steady remorseless barrel stillsailed to and fro across the faces of the men in the hut. 

"Clear out, then, " he shouted. "I'll only give you five minutes. Youshot a woman. And, Frenchy----"

"Yais, Jone. "

"This makes us quits, see?"

"Ver' good, Jone. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, Frenchy. "

Dave ripped out a curse and shifted slightly. The barrel sprang roundto him, and he froze into stillness. 

"Don't do that again, Davy, " warned Mills. 

"You'll catch it hot for this, " snarled one of them. 

"Very like, " replied the trader. 

He counted a liberal five minutes by guess. He dared not look awayfrom his men. At last he spoke. 

"It was up to me, boys, " he said with a sigh. "I couldn't do no less. If it 'ad been a man 'e shot I'd ha' kept you here all day. But I'vedone enough, I reckon, seein' it was a woman. "

He dropped the revolver to the ground. 

"Now!" he said. 

They sat round and stared at him. For full a minute no one spoke. Mills gave them back their eyes gloomily, leaning with folded armsagainst the wall. Then Dave drew a long breath, a very sigh. 

"Well, Jack, " he said, shaking his head, "I didn't think it of you--Ididn't indeed. A skunk like that! a woman-shooter, and a Frenchman!You didn't use to be like this. "

"We're quits now, him and me, " answered Mills. "He saved my life, andI'm satisfied. So if you've got anything to say--or do--then get itover. "

Charley burst out at this in a fuss of anger. "You ought to be shot, "he shouted. "That's all you're fit for. "

"Charley's right, " growled one of the others. 

"Oh, cut it off, " cried Dave impatiently; "we're not going to shootJack. But I guess we won't say we've lost the Frenchman yet. "

He lowered his brows and turned his eyes on Mills. 

"You an' him's quits, Jack, " he said. "What do you think about it?"

Mills looked up slowly, like a man newly awaked from a dream. 

"You might get a shot at him from the path, " he answered musingly. "That is, if he's keeping north. I'll show you the place. "

"You don't think we'd have a chance of catching him?"

"Not a ghost, " replied the trader decisively. "Once you get into thekloof, he's lost. All you can do is wait till he breaks cover downbelow, an' try a long shot. By God!" he cried with sudden energy, "I'll try a lick at him myself. We're quits now, the--the woman-shooter!"

He snatched a rifle and led the way, the others tumbling after him. Some hundred yards beyond the kraal the footpath dipped abruptlytowards the valley, and at an angle of it there was to be gained aclear view of the bush beneath, where it surged at the foot of thehill and ran down the kloof; at the lower part of the kloof itceased, and the ground was bare red earth for a space of somethousand yards. Mills sat down on a stone. Dave squatted beside him, and the others grouped themselves on adjacent boulders. 

The sun was well into the sky by now--it was about six o'clock in themorning. The air was of diamond, and the chill of the night hadalready passed. The men glued their eyes on the bare patch andwaited. 

"Funny game you played up there, " whispered Dave to the trader. 

Mills nodded without speaking. 

"I'm not blaming you, " continued the other. "I reckon I understand, old boy. But are you goin' to shoot at him?"

"I am that, " was the reply. 

"Well, I hope you get him, " said Dave. "The chaps'll forget the otherbusiness then. They didn't like it, you know--nobody would. "

"It's not because I care for them or what they think----" beganMills. 

"I know it's not, " interrupted Dave. "You know all the ranges, Isuppose?"

"Nine hundred yards to that black spot, " said Mills. "The spot's abit of a hole in the ground. Twelve hundred to the big boulder. "

He rose off the stone he was sitting on and lay down on the path, belly under, and ran up the back sight of his rifle with care. Flinging back the bolt, he blew into the chamber and thrust acartridge in; tested the air with a wet finger, and wriggled the butthome into his shoulder. Dave watched him in silence; Mills was, heknew, a good shot, and he was now preparing, with all the littletricks and graces of the rifle-range, to pull trigger on the man hehad risked--nay, almost thrown away--his life to save from theconsequences of an unspeakable crime. 

"Ah!" breathed Mills, with an artist's luxurious satisfaction. 

Down the valley a figure had broken from the bush, and was plainly tobe seen against the red ground. The men on the hill flopped down andprepared to shoot. 

"Don't fire, " Dave warned the others. He was watching Mills. Thetrader's face bore no signs of his recent mental struggle. It carriedno expression whatever, save one of cool interest, just touched witha craftsman's confidence. His barrel was steady as his head. Thelittle figure below was moving over the rough ground towards theblack spot. They could see its legs working grotesquely, like amechanical toy. 

"So, " murmured Mills. "Now just a little farther. So!"

He fired. 

There was no leap into the air, no tragic bound and sprawling tumble. The little figure in the valley fell where it was, and never moved. 

Mills jerked open his breech. 

"I'll bet that took him in the spine, " he said. 

IV

THE MURDERER

 From the open door of the galley, where the cross, sleepy cook wascoaxing his stove to burn, a path of light lay across the deck, showing a slice of steel bulwark with ropes coiled on the pins, andabove it the arched foot of the mainsail. In the darkness forward, where the port watch of the Villingen was beginning the sea day bywashing down decks, the brooms swished briskly and the head-pumpclacked like a great, clumsy clock. 

The men worked in silence, though the mate was aft on the poop, andnothing prevented them from talking as they passed the buckets to andfrom the tub under the pump and drove their brooms along the planks. They labored with the haste of men accustomed to be driven hard, withthe shuffling, involuntary speed that has nothing in it of freestrength or good-will. The big German four-master had gathered fromthe boarding-houses of Philadelphia a crew representing all thenationalities which breed sailors, and carried officers skilled inthe crude arts of getting the utmost out of it. And since the linguafranca of the sea, the tongue which has meaning for Swedishcarpenters, Finn sail-makers, and Greek fo'c's'le hands alike, is notGerman, orders aboard the Villingen were given and understood inEnglish. 

"A hand com' aft here!"

It was the mate's voice from the poop, robust and peremptory. Conroy, one of the two Englishmen in the port watch, laid down the bucket hewas carrying and moved aft in obedience to the summons. As he trodinto the slip of light by the galley door he was visible as a fairyouth, long-limbed and slender, clad in a serge shirt, with dungareetrousers rolled up to the knees, and girt with a belt which carriedthe usual sheath-knife. His pleasant face had a hint of uncertainty;it was conciliatory and amiable; he was an able seaman of the kindwhich is manufactured by a boarding-master short of men out of arunaway apprentice. The others, glancing after him while theycontinued their work, saw him suddenly clear by the galley door, then dim again as he stepped beyond it. He passed out of sighttowards the lee poop ladder. 

The silent, hurried sailors pressed on with their work, while the bigbarque purred through the water to the drone of wind thrusting in thecanvas. The brooms were abaft of the galley when the outcry beganwhich caused them to look apprehensively towards the poop withoutceasing their business of washing down. First it was an oath inexplosive German, the tongue which puts a cutting-edge on profanity;then the mate's roar:

"Is dat vat I tell you, you verfluchter fool? Vat? Vat? You don'tunderstand ven I speak? I show you vat----"

The men who looked up were on the wrong side of the deck to make outwhat was happening, for the chart-house screened the drama fromthem. But they knew too well the meaning of that instantaneoussilence which cut the words off. It was the mate biting in his breathas he struck. They heard the smack of the fist's impact and Conroy'sfaint, angry cry as he failed to guard it; then the mate again, bull-mouthed, lustful for cruelty: "Vat--you lift up your arm to me! Youdog!" More blows, a rain of them, and then a noise as though Conroyhad fallen or been knocked down. And after that a thud and a scream. 

The men looked at one another, and nods passed among them. "He kickedhim when he was down on the deck, " the whisper went. The otherEnglishman in the watch swore in a low grunt and dropped his broom, meeting the wondering eyes of the "Dutchmen" and "Dagoes" with ascowl. He was white-haired and red-faced, a veteran among the nomadsof the sea, the oldest man aboard, and the only one in the port watchwho had not felt the weight of the mate's fist. Scowling still, asthough in deep thought, he moved towards the ladder. The forlorn hopewas going on a desperate enterprise of rescue. 

It might have been an ugly business; there was a sense in the mindsof his fellows of something sickening about to happen; but the matehad finished with Conroy. The youth came staggering and crying downthe ladder, with tears and blood befouling his face, and stumbled ashis foot touched the deck. The older man, Slade, saved him fromfalling, and held him by the upper arm with one gnarled, toil-roughened hand, peering at him through the early morning gloom. 

"Kicked you when you was down, didn't he?" he demanded abruptly. 

"Yes, " blubbered Conroy, shivering and dabbing at his face. "With hissea-boots, too, the--the----"

Slade shook him. "Don't make that noise or he might kick you spinemore, " he advised grimly. "You better go now an' swab that blood offyour face. "

"Yes, " agreed Conroy tremulously, and Slade let him go. 

The elder man watched him move forward on shambling and uncertainfeet, with one hand pressed to his flank, where the mate's kick wasstill an agony. Slade was frowning heavily, with a tincture ofthought in his manner, as though he halted on the brink of somepurpose. 

"Conroy, " he breathed, and started after the other. 

The younger man turned. Slade again put his hand on Conroy's arm. 

"Say, " he said, breathing short, "is that a knife in your belt?"

Conroy felt behind him, uncomprehending, for the sheath-knife, whichhe wore, sailor fashion, in the middle of his back. 

"What d'you mean?" he asked vacantly. "Here's my knife. "

He drew it and showed it to Slade, the flat blade displayed in hispalm. 

The white-haired seaman thrust his keen old face toward Conroy's, sothat the other could see the flash of the white of his eyes. 

"And he kicked you, didn't he?" said Slade tensely. "You fool!"

He struck the knife to the deck, where it rattled and slid toward thescupper. 

"Eh?" Conroy gaped, not understanding. "I don't see what----"

"Pick it up!" said Slade, with a gesture toward the knife. He spoke, as though he strangled an impulse to brandish his fists and scream, in a nasal whisper. "It's safe to kick you, " he said. "A womancould do it. "

"But----" Conroy flustered vaguely. 

Slade drove him off with a wave of his arm and turned away with theabruptness of a man disgusted beyond bearing. 

Conroy stared after him and saw him pick up his broom where he haddropped it and join the others. His intelligence limped; histhrashing had stunned him, and he could not think--he could onlyfeel, like fire in his mind, the passion of the feeble soul resentinginjustice and pain which it cannot resist or avenge. He stooped topick up his knife and went forward to the tub under the head-pump, towash his cuts in cold sea-water, the cheap balm for so many wrongs ofcheap humanity. 

It was an accident such as might serve to dedicate the day to theservice of the owners of the Villingen. It was early and sudden; but, save in these respects, it had no character of the unusual. The menwho plied the brooms and carried the buckets were not shocked orstartled by it so much as stimulated; it thrust under their noses thealways imminent danger of failing to satisfy the mate's ideal ofseaman-like efficiency. They woke to a fresher energy, a moredesperate haste, under its suggestion. 

It was after the coffee interval, which mitigates the sourness of themorning watch, when daylight had brought its chill, grey light to thewide, wet decks, that the mate came forward to superintend the "pullall round, " which is the ritual sequel to washing down. 

"Lee fore-brace, dere!" his flat, voluminous voice ordered, heavywith the man's potent and dreaded personality. They flocked to obey, scurrying like scared rats, glancing at him in timid hate. He camestriding along the weather side of the deck from the remote, augustpoop; he was like a dreadful god making a dreadful visitation uponhis faithful. Short-legged, tending to bigness in the belly, bearded, vibrant with animal force and personal power, his mere presence cowedthem. His gross face, the happy face of an egoist with a sounddigestion, sent its lofty and sure regard over them; it had a kind ofunconsciousness of their sense of humility, of their wrong andresentment--the innocence of an aloof and distant tyrant, who has notdreamed how hurt flesh quivers and seared minds rankle. He was blandand terrible; and they hated him after their several manners, somewith dull tear, one or two--and Slade among them--with a ferocitythat moved them like physical nausea. 

He had left his coat on the wheel-box to go to his work, and wasmanifestly unarmed. The belief which had currency in the forecastle, that he came on watch with a revolver in his coat-pocket, did notapply to him now; they could have seized him, smitten him on hisblaspheming mouth, and hove him over the side without peril. It is athing that has happened to a hated officer more than once or tentimes, and a lie, solemnly sworn to by every man of the watch ondeck, has been entered in the log, and closed the matter for allhands. He was barer of defense than they, for they had their sheath-knives; and he stood by the weather-braces, arrogant, tyrannical, overbearing, and commanded them. He seemed invulnerable, a thing toogreat to strike or defy, like the white squalls that swooped from thehorizon and made of the vast Villingen a victim and a plaything. Hisfull, boastful eye traveled over them absently, and they cringed likeslaves. 

"Belay, dere!" came his orders, overloud and galling to men surgingwith cowardly and insufferable haste. "Lower tobsail--haul! Belay!Ubber tobsail--haul, you sons of dogs! Haul, dere, blast you! Youvant me to come over and show you?"

Servilely, desperately, they obeyed him, spending their utmoststrength to placate him, while the naked spirit of murder moved inevery heart among them. At the tail of the brace, Conroy, with hiscuts stanched, pulled with them. His abject eyes, showing the whitein sidelong glances, watched the great, squat figure of the mate witha fearful fascination. 

Eight bells came at last, signaling the release of the port watchfrom the deck and the tension of the officer's presence. Theforecastle received them, the stronghold of their brief and limitedleisure. The unkempt, weather-stained men, to whom the shifting seaswere the sole arena of their lives, sat about on chests and on theedges of the lower bunks, at their breakfast, while the pale sunlighttraveled to and fro on the deck as the Villingen lurched in her gait. Conroy, haggard and drawn, let the coffee slop over the brim of hishook-pot as he found himself a seat. 

"Well, an' what did he punch ye for this time?"

It was old Slade who put the question, seated on a chest with hisback against the bulkhead. His pot was balanced on his knee, and hisvenerable, sardonic face, with the scanty white hair clinging aboutthe temples, addressed Conroy with slow mockery. 

Conroy hesitated. "It was over coilin' away some gear, " he said. Slade waited, and he had to go on. He had misunderstood the mate'sorder to coil the ropes on the pins, where they would be out of theway of the deck-washing, and he had flemished them down on the poopinstead. It was the mistake of a fool, and he knew it. 

Slade nodded. "Ye-es, " he drawled. "You earned a punch an' you gotit. But he kicked you, too, didn't he?"

"Kicked me!" cried Conroy. "Why, I thought he was goin' to kill me!Look here--look at this, will you?"

With fumbling hands he cast loose his belt and flung it on the floor, and plucked his shirt up so as to leave his side bare. He stood up, with one arm raised above his head, showing his naked flank to theslow eyes of his shipmates. His body had still a boyish delicacy andslenderness; the labor of his trade had not yet built it andthickened it to a full masculinity of proportion. Measured by any ofthe other men in the watch, it was frail, immature, and tender. Themoving sunlight that flowed around the door touched the fair skin andshowed the great, puffed bruises that stood on it, swollen andhorrid, like some vampire fungus growing on the clean flesh. 

A great Greek, all black hair and eyeball, clicked softly between histeeth. 

"It looks like--a hell!" he said softly, in his purring voice. 

"Dem is kicks, all right--ja!" said some one else, and yet anotheradded the comment of a heavy oath. 

Old Slade made no comment, but sat, balancing his hook-pot of coffeeand watching the scene under his heavy white brows. Conroy loweredhis arm and let the shirt fall to cover the bruises. 

"You see?" he said to Slade. 

"I see, " answered the other, with a bitter twist of his old, malicious lips. Setting down the pot which he held, he stooped andlifted the belt which Conroy had thrown down. It seemed to interesthim, for he looked at it for some moments. 

"And here's yer knife, " he said, reaching it to the youth, still withhis manner of mockery. "There's some men it wouldn't be safe tokick, with a knife in their belts. "

He and Conroy were the only Englishmen there; the rest were of theraces which do not fight bare-handed. The big Greek flashed a smilethrough the black, shining curls of his beard, and continued to smilewithout speaking. Through the tangle of incomprehensible conventions, he had arrived at last at a familiar principle. 

Conroy flushed hotly, the blood rising hectic on his bruised andbroken face. 

"If he thinks it's safe with me, " he cried, "he'll learn different. Ididn't have a chance aft there; he came on me too quick, before I wasexpecting him, and it was dark, besides. Or else----"

"It'll be dark again, " said Slade, with intent, significant eyesfixed on him, "and he needn't be expecting you. But--it don't do totalk too much. Talk's easy--talk is. "

"I'll do more than talk, " responded Conroy. "You'll see!"

Slade nodded. "Right, then; we'll see, " he said, and returned to hisbreakfast. 

His bunk was an upper one, lighted and aired by a brass-framed port-hole. Here, when his meal was at an end, he lay, his pipe in hismouth, his hands behind his head, smoking with slow relish, with hiswry old face upturned, and the leathery, muscular forearms showingbelow the rolled shirt-sleeves. His years had ground him to an edge;he had an effect, as he lay, of fineness, of subtlety, of keen andfastidious temper. Forty years of subjection to arbitrary masters hadleft him shrewd and secret, a Machiavelli of the forecastle. 

Once Conroy, after seeming to sleep for an hour, rose on his elbowand stared across at him, craning his neck from his bunk to see thestill mask of his face. 

"Slade?" he said uncertainly. 

"What?" demanded the other, unmoving. 

Conroy hesitated. The forecastle was hushed; the seamen about themslumbered; the only noises were the soothing of the water overside, the stress of the sails and gear, and the irregular tap of a hammeraft. It was safe to speak, but he did not speak. 

"Oh, nothing, " he said, and lay down again. Slade smiled slowly, almost paternally. 

It took less than eight hours for Conroy's rancor to wear dull, andhe could easily have forgotten his threat against the mate in twelve, if only he had been allowed to. He was genuinely shocked when hefound that his vaporings were taken as the utterance of a seriousdetermination. Just before eight bells in the afternoon watch he wentforward beneath the forecastle head in search of some rope-yarns, andwas cutting an end off a bit of waste-line when the Greek, he of thecurly beard and extravagant eyeballs, rose like a demon of pantomimefrom the forepeak. Conroy had his knife in his hand to cut the rope, and the Greek's sudden smile seemed to rest on that and nothing else. 

"Sharp, eh!" asked the Greek, in a whisper that filled the place withdark drama. 

Conroy paused, apprehending his meaning with a start. 

"Oh, it's all right, " he growled, and began to saw at the rope in hishand, while the Greek watched him with his fixed, bony smile. 

"No, " said the latter suddenly. "Dat-a not sharp--no! Look-a 'ere;you see dis?"

He drew his own knife, and showed it pointing towards Conroy in adamp, swarthy hand, whose knuckles bulged above the haft. His rough, spatulate thumb rasped along it, drawing from it the crepitation thatproves an acute edge. 

"Carve him like-a da pork, " he said, in his stage-conspirator'swhisper. "And da point--now, see!"

He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that none overlooked them;then, with no more than a jerk of his hand beside his hip, threw thekeen blade toward the wooden door of the bo'sun's locker. It traveledthrough the air swiftly and stuck, quivering on its thin point, inthe stout teak. The Greek turned his smile again for a moment onConroy before he strode across and recovered it. 

"You take 'im, " he whispered. "Better dan your little knife--yais. "

By the mere urgency of his proffering it the exchange was made, andConroy found himself with a knife in his hand that fell through thestrands of the manila line as though they had been butter, aninstrument made and perfected for a murder. 

"Yes, but look here----" he began, in alarm. 

The broad, mirthless smile was turned on him. 

"Just like-a da pork, " purred the Greek, and nodded assuringly beforehe turned to go aft. 

The bull-roar of the mate, who was awaiting his return with the rope-yarns, roused Conroy from a scared reverie over the knife. Hestarted; the mate was bustling furiously forward in search of him, full of uproar and anger. 

"Dam' lazy schwein, you goin' to schleep dere? You vant me to comean' fetch you?? You vant anodder schmack on de maul to keep youavake--yes?"

He stamped into view round the forward house, while Conroy stood, convicted of idleness by the rope in his hand only half cut through. At the same moment a population of faces came into being behind him. A man who had been aloft shuffled down to the rail; a couple ofothers came into view on the deck; on top of the house, old Sladekneeled to see under the break of the forecastle head. It seemed asthough a skeptical audience had suddenly been created out of hisboast of the morning, every face threatening him with that shamewhich vanity will die rather than endure. In a panic of his facultieshe took one step toward the mate. 

"Hey?" The mate halted in his stride, with sheer amazement written onhis face. "You vant yer head knocked off--yes?"

"No, I don't, " said Conroy, out of a dry mouth. 

According to the usage of ships, even that was defiance and achallenge. 

He had forgotten the revolver with which the mate was credited; hehad forgotten everything but the fact that eyes were on him. Even theknife in his hand passed from his mind; he was a mere tinglingpretence at fortitude, expending every force to maintain his pose. 

"Put dat knife avay!" ordered the mate suddenly. 

He arrested an automatic movement to obey, fighting down a growingfear of his opponent. 

"I've not finished with it yet, " he answered. 

The mate measured him with a practiced eye. Though he had the crazycourage of a bulldog, he was too much an expert in warlikeemergencies to overlook the risk of trying to rush a desperate manarmed with a knife, the chances of the grapple were too ugly. Therewas something lunatic and strange in the youth's glare also; and itwill sometimes happen that an oppressed and cowed man in hisextremity will shrug his meekness from him and become, in a breath, adesperado. This had its place in the mate's considerations. 

"Finish, den!" he rasped, with no weakening of his tone or manner. "You don't t'ink I'm goin' to vait all night for dem rope-yarns--hey?"

He turned his back at once lest Conroy should venture another retort, and make an immediate fight unavoidable. Before his eye the silentaudience melted as swiftly as it had appeared, and Conroy was alonewith his sick sense of having ventured too far, which stood him inplace of the thrill of victory. 

The thrill came later, in the forecastle, where he swelled to theadulation of his mates. They, at any rate, had been deceived by hisattitude; they praised him by word and look; the big Greek infused acertain geniality into his smile. Only Slade said the wrong thing. 

"I was ready for him as soon as he moved, " Conroy was asserting. "Andhe knew it. You should ha' seen how he gaped when I wouldn't put theknife away. "

The men were listening, crediting him. Old Slade, in the background, took his pipe from his lips. 

"An' now I suppose you're satisfied, " he inquired harshly. 

"How d'you mean, satisfied?" demanded Conroy, coloring. "You saw whathappened, didn't you?"

"You made him gape, " said Slade. "That was because he made you howl, eh? Well, ain't you calling it quits, then--till the next time hekicks you?"

Some one laughed; Conroy raised his voice. 

"He'll never kick me again, " he cried. "His kicking days are over. He's kicked me once too often, he has. Quits--I guess not!"

Slade let a mouthful of smoke trickle between his lips; it swam infront of his face in a tenuous film of pale vapor. 

"Well, talkin' won't do it, anyhow, " he said. 

"No, " retorted Conroy, and collected all eyes to his gesture. "Butthis will!"

He showed them the thin-bladed knife which the Greek had given him, holding it before them by the hilt. He let a dramatic moment elapse. 

"Like that!" he said, and stabbed at the air. "Like that--see? Likethat!"

They came upon bad weather gradually, drawing into a belt of half-gales, with squalls that roared up from the horizon and made them forthe time, into whole gales. The Villingen, designed and builtprimarily for cargo capacity, was a wet ship, and upon any point ofsailing had a way of scooping in water by the many tons. In nearlyevery watch came the roar, "Stand by yer to'gallant halliards!" Thenthe wait for ten seconds or ten minutes while the wind grew and thebig four-masted barque lay over and bumped her bluff bows throughracing seas, till the next order, shriller and more urgent, "Loweravay!" and the stiff canvas fought and slatted as the yards camedown. Sea-boots and oilskins were the wear for every watch; wet decksand the crash of water coming inboard over the rail, dull cold andthe rasp of heavy, sodden canvas on numb fingers, became againfamiliar to the men, and at last there arrived the evening, gravidwith tempest, on which all hands reefed top-sails. 

The mate had the middle watch, from midnight till four o'clock in themorning, and for the first two hours it was Conroy's turn on thelookout. The rest, in oilskins and sea-boots, were standing by underthe break of the poop; save for the sleeping men in the shutforecastle, he had the fore part of the ship to himself. He leanedagainst the after rail of the fore-castle head, where a ventilatorsomewhat screened him from the bitter wind that blew out of the dark, and gazed ahead at the murk. Now and again the big barque slidforward with a curtseying motion, and dipped up a sea that flowed aftover the anchors and cascaded down the ladders to the main-deck;spray that spouted aloft' and drove across on the wind, sparkled redand green in the glare of the sidelights like brief fireworks. 

The splash and drum of waters, the heavy drone of the wind in thesails, the clatter of gear aloft, were in his ears; he did not hearone bell strike from the poop, which he should have answered with astroke on the big bell behind him and a shouted report on the lights. 

"Hoy! You schleepin' up dere--hey?"

It was the mate, who had come forward in person to see why he had notanswered. He was by the fore fife-rail, a mere black shape in thedark. 

"Sleepin'--no, sir!"

"Don't you hear yon bell shtrike?" cried the mate, slithering on thewet deck toward the foot of the ladder. 

"No, sir, " said Conroy, and stooped to strike the bell. 

The mate came up the ladder, hauling himself by the hand-rails, forhe was swollen beyond the ordinary with extra clothes under his longoilskin coat. A plume of spray whipped him in the face as he got tothe top, and he swore shortly, wiping his eyes with his hands. At thesame moment, Conroy, still stooping to the bell-lanyard, felt theVillingen lower her nose and slide down in one of her disconcertingcurtseys; he caught at the rail to steady himself. The dark water, marbled with white foam, rode in over the deck, slid across theanchors and about the capstan, and came aft toward the ladder and themate. The ship rolled at the same moment. 

Conroy saw what happened as a grotesque trick of circumstance. Themate, as the deck slanted, slipped and reached for the hand-rail withan ejaculation. The water flowed about his knees; he fell backagainst the hand-rail, which was just high enough for him to sit on. Lit was what, for one ridiculous moment, he seemed to be doing. Thenext, his booted feet swayed up and he fell over backward, amid theconfusion of splashing water that leaped down the main-deck. Conroyheard him strike something below with a queer, smacking noise. 

"Pity he didn't go overboard while he was about it, " he said tohimself, acting out his role. Really, he was rather startled anddismayed. 

He found the mate coiled in the scupper, very wet and still. He tookhold of him to draw him under the forecastle head, where he wouldhave shelter, and was alarmed at the inertness of the body under hishands. 

"Sir!" he cried, "sir!-sir!"

He shook the great shoulders, bat quickly desisted; there wassomething horrible, something that touched his nerves, in itsirresponsiveness. He remembered that he might probably find matchesin the lamp-locker, and staggered there to search. He had to gropein gross darkness about the place, touching brass and the uncannysmoothness of glass, before his hand fell on what he sought. At lasthe was on one knee by the mate's side, and a match shed its littleillumination. The mate's face was odd in its quietude, and the sou'-wester of oilskin was still on his head, held there by the stringunder the chin. From under its edge blood flowed steadily, thickly, appallingly. 

"But----" cried Conroy. The match-flame stung his fingers and hedropped it. "Oh Lord!" he said. It occurred to him then, for thefirst time, that the mate was dead. 

The men aft, bunched up under the break of the poop, were aware ofhim as a figure that came sliding and tottering toward them and fellsprawling at the foot of the poop ladder. He floundered up andclutched the nearest of them, the Greek. 

"The mate's dead, " he broke out, in a kind of breathless squeal. "Somebody call the captain; the mate's dead. "

There was a moment of silence; then a cackle of words from several ofthem together. The Greek's hands on his shoulders tightened. He heardthe man's purring voice in his ear. 

"How did you do it?"

Conroy thrust himself loose; the skies of his mind were split by afrightful lightning flash of understanding. He had been alone withthe mate; he had seen him die; he was sworn to kill him. He could seethe livid smile of the Greek bent upon him. 

"I didn't do it, " he choked passionately, and struck with a wild, feeble hand at the smile. "You liar--I didn't do it. "

"Hush!" The Greek caught him again and held him. 

Some of the men had started forward; others had slipped into thealleyway to rouse the second mate and captain. The Greek had himclutched to his bosom in a strong embrace and was hushing him as onemight hush a scared child. Slade was at his side. 

"He slipped, I tell you; he slipped at the top of the ladder. She'dshipped a dollop of water and then rolled, and over he went. I heardhis head go smack and went down to him. I never touched him. I swearit--I never touched him. "

"Hush!" It was Slade this time. "And yer sure he's dead. Well----"the old man exchanged nods with the Greek. "All right. Only--don'ttell the captain that tale; it ain't good enough. "

"But----" began Conroy. A hug that crushed his face against theGreek's oilskin breast silenced him. 

"Vat is all dis?"

It was the captain, tall, august, come full-dressed from his cabin. At his back the second mate, with his oilskin coat over his pajamas, thrust forward his red, cheerful face. 

Slade told the matter briefly. "And it's scared young Conroy all tobits, sir, " he concluded. 

"Come for'ard, " bade the captain. "Get a lamp, some vun!"

They followed him along the wet, slippery deck slowly, letting himpass ahead out of earshot. 

"It was a belayin'-pin, ye'es?" queried the Greek softly of Conroy. 

"He might have hit his head against a pin, " replied Conroy. 

"Eh?" The Greek stopped. "Might 'ave--might 'ave 'it 'is 'ead? Ah, dat is fine! 'E might 'ave 'it 'is 'ead, Slade! You 'ear dat?"

"Yes, it ain't bad!" replied Slade, and Conroy, staring in a wildattempt to see their faces clearly, realized that they were laughing, laughing silently and heartily. With a gesture of despair he leftthem. 

A globe-lamp under the forecastle head lighted the captain'sinvestigations, gleaming on wet oilskins, shadow-pitted faces, andthe curious, remote thing that had been the mate of the Villingen. Its ampler light revealed much that the match-flame had missed fromits field--the manner in which the sou'wester and the head it coveredwere caved in at one side, the cut in the sou'wester through whichclotted hair protruded, the whole ghastliness of death that comes byviolence. With all that under his eyes, Conroy had to give hisaccount of the affair, while the ring of silent, hard-breathing menwatched him and marvelled at the clumsiness of his story. 

"It is strange, " said the captain. "Fell over backwards, you said. Itis very strange! And vere did you find de body?"

The scupper and deck had been washed clean by successive seas; therewas no trace there of blood, and none on the rail. Even while theysearched, water spouted down on them. But what Conroy noted was thatno pin stood in the rail where the mate had fallen, and the hole thatmight have held one was empty. 

"Ah, veil!" said the captain at last. "De poor fellow is dead. I donot understand, quite, how he should fall like dat, but he is dead. Four of you get de body aft. "

"Please, sir, " accosted Conroy, and the tall captain turned. 

"Veil, vat is it?"

"Can I go below, sir? It was me that found him, sir. I feel rather--rather bad. "

"So!" The tall captain considered him inscrutably, he, the finalarbiter of fates. "You feel bad--yes? Veil, you can go below!"

The little group that bore the mate's body shuffled aft, with theothers following like a funeral procession. A man looked shiveringout of the door of the starboard forecastle, and inquired in loudwhispers. 

"Was ist los? Sag mal--was ist denn los?" He put his inquiry toConroy, who waved him off and passed to the port forecastle on theother side of the deckhouse. 

The place was somehow strange, with its double row of empty bunkslike vacant coffin-shelves in a vault, but solitude was what hedesired. The slush-lamp swung and stank and made the shadows wander. From the other side of the bulkhead he could hear stirrings and amurmur of voices as the starboard watch grew aware that something hadhappened on deck. Conroy, with his oilskin coat half off, paused tolisten for comprehensible words. The opening of the door behind himstartled him, and he spun round to see Slade making a cautious entry. He recoiled. 

"Leave me alone, " he said, in a strangled voice, before the othercould speak. "What are you following me for? You want to make me outa murderer. I tell you I never touched him. "

The other stood just within the door, the upper half of his faceshadowed by his sou'wester, his thin lips curved in a faint smile. "No!" he said mockingly. "You didn't touch him? An' I make no doubtsyou'd take yer oath of it. But you shouldn't have put the pin back inthe rail when you was through with it, all the same. "

"There wasn't any pin there, " said Conroy quickly. He had backed asfar from Slade as he could, and was staring at him with horrifiedeyes. 

"But there would ha' been if I hadn't took a look round while youwere spinnin' your yarn to the Old Man, " said Slade. "I knew you wasa fool. "

With a manner as of mild glee he passed his hand into the bosom ofhis coat, still keeping his sardonic gaze fixed on Conroy. 

"Good thing you've got me to look after you, " he went on. "Thinks I, 'He might easy make a mistake that 'ud cost him dear;' so I took alook round. An' I found this. " From within his coat he brought forthan iron belaying-pin, and held it out to Conroy. 

"See?" His finger pointed to it. "That's blood, that is--and that'shair. Look for yourself. Now I suppose you'll tell me you nevertouched him!"

"He hit his head against it when he fell, " protested the younger man. "He did! Oh, God, I can't stand this!"

He sank to a seat on one of the chests and leaned his face againstthe steel plate of the wall. 

"Hit his head, " snorted old Slade. "Couldn't you ha' fixed up abetter yarn than that? What are you snivellin' at? D'ye think yer theonly man 'as ever stove in a mate's head--an' him a murderin'mandriver? Keep them tales for the Old Man; he believes 'emseemingly; but don't you come them on me. "

Conroy was moaning. "I never touched him; I never touched him!"

"Never touched him! Here, take the pin; it's yours!"

He shrank from it. "No, no!"

Slade pitched it to his bunk, where it lay on the blanket. "It'syours, " he repeated. "If yer don't want it, heave it overboardyerself or stick it back in the rail. Never touched him--you make mesick with yer never touched him!"

The door slammed on his scornful retreat; Conroy shuddered and satup. The iron belaying-pin lay where it had fallen, on his bed, andeven in that meager light it carried the traces of its part in themate's death. It had the look of a weapon rather than of a humbleship-fitting. It rolled a couple of inches where it lay as the shipleaned to a gust, and he saw that it left a mark where it had been, astain. 

He seized it in a panic and started for the door to be rid of it atonce. 

As if a malicious fate made him its toy, he ran full into the Greekoutside. 

"Ah!" The man's smile flashed forth, wise and livid. "An' so you 'adit in your pocket all de time, den!"

Conroy answered nothing. It was beyond striving against. He walked tothe rail and flung the thing forth with hysterical violence to thesea. 

The watch going below at four o'clock found him apparently asleep, with his face turned to the wall. They spoke in undertones, as thoughthey feared to disturb him, but none of them mentioned the onlymatter which all had in mind. They climbed heavily to their bunks, there to smoke the brief pipe, and then to slumber. Only Slade, whoslept little, would from time to time lean up on one elbow to lookdown and across to the still figure which hid its face throughout thenight. 

Conroy woke when the watch was called for breakfast by a man whothrust his head in and shouted. He had slept at last, and now as hesat up it needed an effort of mind to recall his trouble. He lookedout at his mates, who stood about the place pulling on their clothes, with sleep still heavy on them. They seemed as usual. It was his turnto fetch the coffee from the galley, he remembered, and he slippedout of his bunk to dress and attend to it. 

"I won't be a minute, " he said to the others, as he dragged on histrousers. 

A shaggy young Swede near the door was already dressed. 

"I vill go, " he said. "You don't bother, " and forthwith slipped out. 

The others were looking at him now, glancing with a queer, sharpinterest and turning away when they met his eyes. It was as though hewere a stranger. 

"That was a queer thing last night, " he said to the nearest. 

"Yes, " the other agreed, with a kind of haste. 

They sat about at their meal, when the coffee had been brought by thevolunteer, under the same constraint. He could not keep silent; hehad to speak and make them answer. 

"Where is he?" he asked abruptly. 

"On de gratings, " he was told. And the Swede who fetched the coffeeadded, "Sails is sowin' him up now already. "

"We'll see the last of him to-day, " said Slade. "He won't kick nobodyagain!"

There was a mutter of agreement, and eyes turned on Conroy again. Slade smiled slowly. 

"Yes, he keeck once too many times, " said the Greek. 

The shaggy young Swede wagged his head. "He t'ink it was safe to kickConroy, but it aindt, " he observed profoundly. "No, it aindt safe. "

"He got vat he asked for. . . . Didn't know vat he go up againdst. . . No, it aindt--it aindt safe. . . Maybe vi'sh he aindt so handymit his feet now. "

They were all talking; their mixed words came to Conroy in brokensentences. He stared at them a little wildly, realizing the fact thatthey were admiring him, praising him, and afraid of him. The bloodrose in his face hotly. 

"You fellers talk, " he began, and was disconcerted at the manner inwhich they all fell silent to hear him--"you talk as if I'd killedhim. "

"Well! . . . Ach was!"

He faced their smiles, their conciliatory gestures, with a frown. 

"You better stop it, " he said. "He fell--see? He fell an' stove hishead in. An' any feller that says he didn't----"

His regard traveled from face to face, giving force to his challenge. 

"Ve aindt goin' to say nodings!" they assured him mildly. "You don'tneed to be scared of us, Conroy. "

"I'm not scared, " he said, with meaning. "But look out, that's all. "

When breakfast was over, it was his turn to sweep up. But there wasalmost a struggle for the broom and the privilege of saving him thattrouble. It comforted him and restored him; it would have been evenbetter but for the presence of Slade, sitting aloft in his bunk, smiling over his pipe with malicious understanding. 

The Villingen was still under reefed upper topsails, walking into theseas on a taut bowline, with water coming aboard freely. There waslittle for the watch to do save those trivial jobs which never failon a ship. Conroy and some of the others were set to scrubbing teakon the poop, and he had a view of the sail-maker at his work on thegratings under the break of the poop, stitching on his knees to makethe mate presentable for his last passage. The sailmaker was abearded Finn, with a heavy, darkling face and the secret eyes of afaun. He bent over his task, and in his attitude and the slow rhythmof his moving hand there was a suggestion of ceremonial, of an actmysterious and ritual. 

Half-way through the morning, Conroy was sent for to the cabin, thereto tell his tale anew, to see it taken down, and to sign it. Thecaptain even asked him if he felt better. 

"Thank you, sir, " replied Conroy. "It was a shock, findin' him deadlike that. "

"Yes, yes, " agreed the captain. "I can understand--a great shock. Yes!"

He was bending over his papers at the table; Conroy smiled over hisbowed head. Returning on deck, he winked to the man at the wheel, whosmiled uncomfortably in return. Later he borrowed a knife to scrapesome spots of paint off the deck; he did not want to spoil the edgeof his own. 

They buried the mate at eight bells; the weather was thickening, andit might be well to have the thing done. The hands stood around, bareheaded, with the grating in the middle of them, one edge restingon the rail, the other supported by two men. There was a dark smudgeon the sky up to windward, and several times the captain glanced upfrom his book towards it. He read in German slowly, with a dwellingupon the sonorous passages, and towards the end he closed the bookand finished without its aid. 

Conroy was at the foot of the ladder; the captain was above him, reading mournfully, solemnly, without looking at the men. They wererigid, only their eyes moving. Conroy collected their glancesirresistibly. When the captain had finished his reading he sighed andmade a sign, lifting his hand like a man who resigns himself. The menholding the grating tilted it; the mate of the Villingen, with alittle jerk, went over the side. 

"Shtand by der tobs'l halliards!" roared the second mate. 

Conroy, in the flurry, found himself next to a man of his watch. Hejerked a thumb in the direction of the second mate, who was stillvociferating orders. 

"Hark at him!" he said. "Before we're through I'll teach him mannerstoo. "

And he patted his knife. 

V

THE VICTIM

Cobb was crossing the boulevard, and was actually evading a taxi-cabat the moment when he sighted the little comedy which he made hasteto interrupt. Upon the further pavement, Savinien, whom he oncebelieved in as a poet, had stopped in the shelter of a shop door, anunlighted cigarette between his lips, and was prospecting his vastperson with gentle little slaps for a match. The current of thepavement rippled by him; the great expanse of his back was halfturned to it, so that he and his search were in a kind of privacy, and the situation was favorable to the two inconspicuous men whoapproached him from either side. The one, with an air of hurry, ranagainst him at the instant, when he was exploring his upper waistcoatpocket, staggered and caught at him with mumbled apologies; theother, with the sure and suave movement of an expert, slid an armbetween the two bodies, withdrew it, and was making off. 

"Hi!" shouted Cobb, as the taxi shaved past him, and came across witha rush. People stopped to see what he was shouting at, and a group ofthem, momentarily blocking the pavement, made it easy for the lankyCobb to bowl the fleeing pickpocket against the wall and lay securehands on him. 

"You come along with me, " said Cobb, who always forgot his Frenchwhen he was excited. 

The thief, helpless under the grip on the nape of his neck, whinedand stammered. He was a rat of a man, white-faced, pale-eyed, with asagging, uncertain mouth. 

"M'sieur!" he whimpered. "But I have got nothing! It is a mistake. The other man----"

Cobb thrust him at the end of a long arm to where Savinien stood, thecigarette still unlighted. The other man, of course, was gone. 

"Hullo, Savinien, " said Cobb. "You know you've been robbed, don'tyou? I just caught this fellow as he was bolting. See what you'velost, won't you?"

"Lost!" Savinien stared, a little stupidly, Cobb thought, andsuddenly smiled. He was bulky to the point of grotesqueness, with ahuge white torpid face and a hypochondriac stoop of the shoulders, and the hand that traveled over his waistcoat, from pocket to pocket, looked as if it had been shaped out of dough. 

"Well!" said Cobb impatiently, stilling the thief's whimperingprotests with a quick grip of the hand that held him. 

"My watch, " murmured Savinien, still smiling though he were pleasedand relieved to be the victim of a theft. "But let him go. "

"Let him go! Oh no, " said Cobb. "I'll hand him over to the police andwe'll get the watch out of him. "

"The watch is nothing, " said Savinien. "Let him go before therearrives an agent, or it will be too late. "

He came a pace nearer as he spoke, and nodded at Cobb confidentially, as though there were reasons for his request which he could notexplain before the on-lookers. 

"But----" began Cobb. 

"Let him go, " urged Savinien. "It is necessary. Afterwards, I willexplain to you. " He put his shapeless soft hand on Cobb's arm whichheld the thief. 

"Let him go. "

"You are serious?" demanded Cobb. "He's to go, is he? With yourwatch? All right!"

He let go the scraggy neck which he held in the fork of his hand. They were, by this time, ringed about by spectators, but the thiefwas not less expert with crowds than with pockets. He was no soonerloose than he seemed to merge into the folk about, to pass throughand beyond them like a vapor. Heads turned, feet shuffled. Saviniencame about ponderously like a battleship in narrow waters, but thethief was gone. 

"Tiens!" ejaculated someone, and there was laughter. 

Savinien's arm insinuated itself through Cobb's elbow. 

"Let us go where we can sit down, " said the poet. "You are puzzled--not? But I will explain you all that. "

"It wasn't a bet, was it?" asked Cobb. 

The poet laughed gently. "That possibility alarms you?" he suggested. "But it was not a bet; it is more vital than that. I will tell youwhen we sit down. "

At Savinien's slow pace they came at last to small marble-toppedtables under a striped awning. Savinien, with loud gasps, let himselfdown upon an exiguous chair, rested both fat hands upon the head ofhis stick, and smiled ruefully across the table at Cobb. A tinge ofblue had come out around his lips. 

"Even to walk, " he gasped, "that discomposes me, as you see. It isterrible. "

"Take it easy, " counseled Cobb. 

An aproned waiter served them, Cobb with beer, Savinien with atreacly liqueur in a glass the size of a thimble. When he was alittle restored from his exertions, he laid his arm on the table, with the little glass held between his thumb and forefinger, andremained in this attitude. 

"Go ahead, " said Cobb. "Tell me why you are distributing watches tothe deserving poor in this manner. "

"It is not benevolence, " replied Savinien. "It is simply that I have aneed of some misfortune to balance things. "

There was a muffled quality in his voice, as though it were subduedby the bulk from which it had to emerge; but his enunciation was asclean and dexterous as in the days when he had made a vogue for hispoems by reading them aloud. It was the voice of a poet issuing fromthe mouth of a glutton. 

"To balance things, " he repeated. "Fortune, my dear Cobb, is apendulum; the higher it rises on the side of happiness, the furtherit returns on the side of disaster. And with me, who cannot take yourarm for a promenade along the pavement without a tightness in theneck and a flutter of my heart, who may not go upstairs quicker thana step a minute, disaster has only one shape. It arrives and I amextinguished! It is for that reason that I fear a persistence of goodluck. Of late, the luck that dogs me has been incredible. 

"Listen, now, to this! Three days ago, being in a difficulty, I go insearch of Rigobert. You know Rigobert, perhaps?"

"Yes, " said Cobb. "That is, I have lent him money!"

"Precisely, " agreed Savinien. "The sum which he owed me was no morethan two hundred and fifty francs but I had not much hope of him. Iwent leisurely upon the way towards his studio, and at the corner bythe Madeleine I entered the post office to obtain a stamp for aletter I had to send. The first thing which I perceived as I openedthe door was the back of Rigobert, as he sprawled against thecounter, signing his name upon a form while the clerk counted outmoney to him. Hundred franc notes, my friend--noble new notes, ten innumber, a thousand francs in all, which Rigobert received for hisuntidy autograph upon a blue paper. As for me, I planted myself thereat his back in an attitude of expectancy and determination to awaithis leisure. He was cramming the money into his trousers pocket as heturned round and beheld me. He was embarrassed. He, the universaldebtor, the bottomless pit of loans and obligations, to be discoveredthus. 

"You!" he exclaimed. 

"I!" I replied, and took him very firmly by the arm and mentioned mylittle affair to him. He was not pleased, Rigobert, but for themoment he was empty of excuses. When he suggested that we should goto a cafe, to change one of the notes, that he might pay me my twohundred and fifty, I agreed, for I had him by the arm, but I couldsee that he was gathering his faculties, and I was wary. A bon ratbon chat!

"I wasted till his note was changed. 'Now, my friend, ' I said. 'Thehour is come. '"

"He looked at me attentively; he is very naive, in reality. Then, very slowly, he put one hand in his pocket and drew out the wholebundle of money. It looked opulent, it looked fulsome. 

"'Savinien, ' he said. 'I will do even more than you ask. Two-fifty, is it not? See, now, here is five hundred, and I will toss youwhether I pay you five hundred or nothing. '"

"He balanced a coin on his thumb-nail, and smiled at me sidelong. Idrew myself up with dignity to repudiate his proposal, but at thatinstant there came to me--who can say what it was?--a whim, a nudgefrom the thumb of Providence, a momentary lunacy! I relaxed myattitude. "

"'Very well, ' I replied. 'But first permit me to examine the coin. '"

"With Rigobert, that is not an insult. He handed me the coin withouta word--an honest cart-wheel, a five-franc piece. "

"'Toss, then, ' I said, returning it to him. 'Face!' I called, as hespun it up. It twinkled in the air like a humming-bird, a score offrancs to each flick of its wings, and his palm intercepted it as itfell. I leaned across to see; behind Rigobert's shoulder the waiterleaned likewise. The poor fellow had really no chance to practicethose little tricks in which he is eminent. I had won. I drew themoney across to me. "

"'Peste!' remarked Rigobert, in a tone of dejection, and looked withan appearance of horror at what remained to him of his thousandfrancs. The waiter beamed at me and rubbed his hands. I ordered himin a strong voice to bring two more consommations. "

"'Look here, ' said Rigobert. 'Lend me that five hundred, will you?Or, at any rate----'"

"He paused, and his eye lit again with hope. "

"'Tell you what, ' he said. 'I'll toss you once more--five hundredagainst five hundred. This'--he laid his hand on his remaining money--'is no use to me. I simply can't do with less than a thousand. Isit agreed?"

"I desired to refuse; I am not a gambler; I come of prudent people. But again it came, that inspired impulse, that courageous folly. "

"'It is agreed, ' I replied. "

"He meant to win, that time. He sat back to it, he concentratedhimself. He cast a look at me, the glance of a brigand. I wasimperturbable. Again the waiter hurried to see the venture. Rigobertfrowned. "

"'You call "face, " eh?' he asked, balancing the coin. "

"'I call when the coin is in the air, ' I replied. "

"He grunted, and spun it up. 'Pile!' I called this time. Down it cameto his hand. Once more the eyes of the waiter and myself rushed toit; the result was capable of no adjustment. I felt my heart bumppainfully. The broad coin lay on his hand, pile uppermost. I drew therest of the money to me. "

"'A thousand thanks, ' I croaked from a throat constricted withsurprise. Rigobert swore. "

Cobb laughed. "Is that all that is troubling you?" he asked. 

"All!" Savinien shrugged his immense shoulders desolately. "All! Thatwas merely the commencement, " he said. "And even that did not finishthere. "

"I hope Rigobert didn't get any of it back, " said Cobb. 

"He did his best, " replied Savinien. "In a minute or two he collectedhis wits and addressed himself to the situation. It was worth seeing. He shook his depression from him like a dog shaking water from itscoat, and sat up. Enterprise, determination, ruthlessness wereeloquent in his countenance; I felt like a child before such acombination of qualities. Then he began to talk. He has an air, thatbrigand; he can cock his head so as to deceive a bailiff; he can weara certain nobility of countenance; and with it all he can importunelike a beggar. He has a horrid and plausible fluency; he is deaf todenials; he drugs you with words and robs you before you recoverconsciousness. He had got the length of quoting my own verses to me, and I felt myself going, when deliverance arrived. A stout man pausedon the pavement, surveying us both, then came towards us. 

"'Monsieur Rigobert, ' he said, with that fashion of politeness whichone dreads, 'I am on my way to your address. '"

"'Do not let me detain you, ' replied Rigobert unpleasantly. 

"'But, ' said the other, 'this was the day you appointed, M'sieur. Yousaid, 'Bring your bill to me on the 13th, and I will pay it. ' Here isthe bill. '"

"He plunged his hand into his breast pocket and fumbled with papers. Rigobert examined me rapidly. But the spell was broken, and I wasmyself again master of my emotions, and of the thousand francs. Hesaw that it was hopeless--and rose. 

"'Monsieur, ' he said to the tradesman, 'this is not a time to talk tome of business. I have just suffered a painful bereavement. '"

"He made a gesture with his hand, mournful and resigned, and walkedaway, while the tradesman gazed after him. And there was I--rich andsafe! I felt a warmth that pervaded me. I settled my hat on my headand reached for my cane. It was then that the truly significant thingoccurred--the clue, as it were. My hand, as I took my cane, brushedagainst my liqueur glass upon the table; it fell, rolled to the edge, and disappeared. The waiter dived for it, while I waited to pay forthe breakage. His foolish German face came up over the edge of thetable, crumpled in a smile. 

"'It is all right, ' he said. 'The glass is not broken. '"

"It was then, my friend, that I began to perceive how things werewith me. Dimly at first, but, as the day proceeded, with growingclearness. I became aware that I stood in the shadow of some strangefate. Small ills, chances of trifling misfortune, stood aloof, andlet me pass unharmed; I was destined to be the prey of a mightierevil. When I light my cigarette, do my matches blow out in the wind?No, they burn with the constancy of an altar candle. If I leave mygloves in a cab, as happened yesterday, do I lose them? No, thecabman comes roaring down the street at my back to catch me andrestore them. A thousand such providences make up my day. Thismorning, just before I encountered you, the chief and most signal ofthem all occurred. "

"Go on, " said Cobb. 

"It was, in fact, impressive, " said Savinien. "There is, not far fromhere, a shop where I am accustomed to buy my cigarettes. A smallplace, you know, a hole in the wall, with a young ugly woman behindthe counter. One enters, one murmurs 'Maryland, ' one receives one'syellow packet, one pays, one salutes, one departs. There is nothingin the place to invite one to linger; never in my life have I saidmore than those two words--'Maryland' on entering and 'Madame' onleaving--to the good creature of the shop. I do not know her name, nor she mine. Ordinarily she is reading when I enter; she puts downher book to serve me as one might put down a knife and fork; it mustoften happen that she interrupts herself in the middle of a word. Shegets as far as:

"'Jean ki----' then I enter. 'Maryland, ' I murmur, receive my packet, and pay. 'Madame!' I raise my hat and depart. Not till then does sheknow the continuation:--'ssed Marie, ' or 'cked the Vicomte, 'whichever it may be. Not a luxurious reader, that one, you see. 

"Well, this morning I enter as usual. There she sits, book in hand. 'Maryland' I murmur. For the first time in my experience of her shedoes not at once lay the book, face downwards, on the counter, andturn to the shelf behind her to reach me my cigarettes. No, the goodcreature is absorbed. 'Pardon, ' I say, rather louder. She looks up, and it is clear she is impatient at being disturbed. 'Maryland, ' Irequest. She puts down the book and fumbles for a packet. But I amcurious to know what book it is that holds her so strongly, whatgenius of a romancer has aimed so surely at her intelligence. I turnthe book round with a finger. The shop, the shelves, the horse's faceof Madame the proprietress swim before me. I could dance; I couldweep; I could embrace the lady in the pure joy of an artistappreciated and requited. For of all the books ever printed uponpaper, that book is mine. My verses! My songs of little lives, theygrasp at her and will not let go, like importunate children; she isnot easily nor willingly free of them when affairs claim her. Nuncdimittis!"

"What did you do?" inquired Cobb. "Give her a watch, or what?"

"My friend, " said Savinien, "I was careful. To do a foolish or agraceless thing would have been to dethrone for her a poet. There wasneed of a spacious and becoming gesture. I opened her book at thefly-leaf, and reached across to the comptoir for a pen. She turned atthat and stared, possibly fearful, poor creature, that it was thetill that attracted me. I took the pen and splashed down on the fly-leaf of the book my name in full--a striking signature! Then withouta further word that might make an anti-climax, I took my cigarettesand departed. I was so thrilled, so exalted, that it was five minutesbefore I remembered to be afraid. "

"For my fortune was becoming bizarre, you know. It was making meridiculous even to myself. I have told you but the salient incidentsof it; I do not desire to weary you with the facts of the brokenbraces, the spurious two-franc piece, or the lost door-key. But it isbecoming sinister; it needed a counter-poise before it became sopronounced that nothing but sudden death would suffice. The thiefsteals my watch and I am relieved; he is departing with my bestwishes for his success; all promises well, till you arrive at thecharge, with your comb erect, and seize him. It is all of a piece. Yes, I know it is funny, but it alarms me. I offer it, therefore, mywatch--a sacrifice. Perhaps it likes watches. If so, I have got offcheaply, for, to tell the truth, it was not much of a watch. "

He raised the minute glass and drank, setting it down again with aflourish. 

"And now I must be going, " he said. "It is a strange story--not? ButI don't like it; I don't like it at all. "

"Adieu, " said Cobb, rising also. "I don't think I'd worry, if I wereyou. And I won't interfere again. "

"On no account, " said Savinien, seriously. 

Cobb watched him move away, plodding along the pavement heavily, hugeand portentous. The back of his head bulged above the collar, with noshow of neck between. He was comical and pathetic; he seemed too vastin mere flesh to be the sport of a thing so freakish as luck. Tothink that such a bulk had a weak heart in it--and that deeper stillin its recesses there moved and suffered the soul of a poet!

"Queer yarn, " mused Cobb. 

It was on the following morning, while Cobb was dressing, that themessenger arrived--a little man in black, with a foot-rule stickingout of his coat-pocket. He looked like an elderly man-servant who haddescended to trade. He had a letter for Cobb, addressed in Savinien'spyrotechnic hand, and handed it to him without speaking. 

"My dear friend, " it said, "I fear the worst. On my return to myrooms here, the first thing I saw was my watch, reposing on mybedside table. It appears that when I made my toilet in the morning Iforgot to put it in my pocket. The thief, after all, got nothing. Iam lost. In despair, Your Cesar Savinien. "

"Yes?" said Cobb. "You want an answer?" For the little artisan inblack was waiting. 

"An answer!" The other stared. "But----then monsieur does not know?"

"What?"

"He must have been going down to post that note when he had writtenit, " said the little man. "We found it in his hand. "

"Eh?" Cobb almost recoiled in the shock of his surprise and horror. "D'you mean to tell me that after all, he--he is----"

The little man in black uttered a professional sigh. "The conciergefound him in the morning, " he replied. "It is said that he sufferedfrom his heart, that poor Monsieur. "

"Good Lord!" said Cobb. 

VI

BETWEEN THE LIGHTS

There was but the one hotel in that somber town of East Africa, andMiss Gregory, fronting the proprietor of it squarely, noted that helooked at her with something like amusement. She was a short womanof fifty, grey-haired and composed, and her pleasant face had a quietand almost masculine strength and assurance. In her grey flanneljacket and short skirt and felt hat, with a sun-umbrella carried likea walking-stick, she looked adequate and worthy. Hers was a presencethat earned respect and deference in the highways of travel; she hadthe air of a veteran voyager. 

"I have managed to lose the boat, " she said evenly; "and my luggage, of course, has been carried on to Zanzibar. "

The hotel proprietor had not risen from his chair. He shrugged andsmiled as he looked up at her. 

"Vat you vant?" he asked. 

Miss Gregory frowned. "I want a room for the night, " she answered. "Aroom and dinner, please. "

The man smiled again and bit his nails. He was a lean creature, unshaven and sidelong, and he had the furtive and self-conscious airof one who perpetrates a practical joke. Miss Gregory watched himwith some impatience; she had yet to learn that a Portugee of theCoast will even lose money to inconvenience an English man or woman. 

"You got money?" he asked. 

Miss Gregory squared her shoulders. "I shall pay in the morning, " shesaid. "You need have no fear; the Consul will be back to-morrow; Iinquired at the Consulate. " She paused; he wore still his narrow grinof malice. "Man!" she said contemptuously; "do you keep an hotel andnot know a lady when you see one?"

"No money?" he suggested insinuatingly. 

Miss Gregory sank a hand in her big pocket and brought forth herpurse. There was a slight flush on her healthy broad face, but shegoverned her voice admirably. 

"Here are three English shillings, " she said, tilting them into herhand. "You can take these as a--as a deposit; and the rest will bepaid in the morning. Now show me to my room. "

The landlord uncoiled himself and rose from his chair to look at themoney. He peered at it in her hand, then straightened up and facedher. Suddenly he had become hostile, lividly vicious; he laughed ashrill cackle in her face, his nose wrinkled like a dog's. 

"No good to me, " he said. "T'ree shillin'--poof! For free shillin'here you buy-a free drink. For room--an' dinner--you pay-a one pound. Take-a your t'ree shillin' away; I don't vant-a you an' your freeshillin'. You get out--go walk-a in da street. "

His eyes traveled swiftly about the place, as though to make surethat no one overheard; then he spat a foul epithet at her. His lean, unbuttoned body writhed as he babbled; his hands whirled in gestures;he seemed to be seeking courage to be violent. Miss Gregory, with alittle frown of consideration, watched him. She buttoned the flanneljacket across her breast and restored her three shillings to herpocket. It was all done very deliberately, and through it all herformidable gaze held the Portugee at arm's length, till his gabbledinsults died out and left him armed only with scowls. Miss Gregorywaited, but he had no more to say. 

"I will call on you to-morrow, my man, " she said significantly, andwalked at a leisurely rate through the door to the grave streetwithout, where the quick evening was already giving place to night. 

The sky overhead was deep blue and clear, powdered with a multitudeof stars, and over the sea to the east a crescent of moon floatedlow. The night was fresh, but not cold. Miss Gregory, pacingtranquilly along the cobbled street, found it agreeable after thesterile heat of the afternoon. A faint breeze stirred the acaciaswhich were planted along the middle of the way, and they murmuredsecretly. The prospect of a night without shelter did not greatlydisturb her; she was already conscious that when she came to lookback on it, it would take a high rank among her experiences. 

A turning brought her to the Praca, the little square of the town, its heart and centre. Here there were lights, the signal that theplace had waked up for the evening. Two or three low-browed cafesabutted on the pavement, each lively with folk who drank and talked;the open doors of a church showed an interior faintly luminous withcandles; and men and a few women stood about in groups or moved hereand there at their ease. With her deliberate step, Miss Gregorypassed among them, looking about her with the ready interest of theold traveler who sees without criticizing. There was a flavor in theplace and its people that struck her like something pungent; they hadindividuality; they belonged to each other. There was a sinistercharacter in the faces and bearing of the men, a formidabledirectness in the women; not one but had the air of carrying a hiddenweapon. It was the commonplace evening population of an East Africantown which has never lived down the traditions of its pirate-founders, and Miss Gregory marked its fine picturesqueness withappreciation. Every one turned to look at her as she passed; she, clean, sane, assured, with her little air of good-breeding, was noless novel to them than they to her. A thin dark woman, with arms andbreasts bare, took a quick step forward to look into her face; MissGregory paused in her walk to return the scrutiny. The woman's widelips curled in a sudden laughter; Miss Gregory smiled patronizingly, nodded to her and passed on. 

She made a tour of the square, and even explored the mouth of a darklane that led out of it. But it seemed to lead nowhere; it was a mereburrow between high silent houses, twisting abruptly among them withno purpose of direction, and she turned back to the lights. She wasconscious by now that she had been on her feet since early in theafternoon, and she crossed to one of the cafes, where a tinkling bandadded its allurements to the yellow lights, and sat down at a smalltable. With one accord the customers at the place turned to look ather. A barefoot waiter received her order for coffee; she foundherself a cigarette, lit it and looked about her. The cafe was a lowwhitewashed room, open to the pavement at one side; it was crowdedwith little tables, and at one end an orchestra of four sallow girlssmoked and fiddled and strummed. All about her were the hard, keenmen and women she had seen in the square, more men than women. Theytalked to each other earnestly, in guarded voices, with eyes alertfor eavesdroppers; nearly every one had an air of secrecy andcaution. They were of all the racial types she had ever seen. Teuton, Latin and Slav, and variants and mixtures of these, murmured andwhispered among themselves; only one of them was unmistakablyEnglish. 

Miss Gregory had noticed him as soon as she entered, and her tablewas next to the one at which he sat with three others, who watchedhim while he talked, and said little. He was a fair youth, with abland, rather vacant face, and a weak, slack mouth. Miss Gregory knewsuch faces among footmen and hairdressers, creatures fitted by theirdeficiencies to serve their betters. He had evidently been drinking agood deal; the table before him was sloppy and foul, and there wasthe glaze of intoxication in his eyes. But what arrested her was atouch of exaltation in him, a manner as of triumph. For some reasonor other he seemed radiant and glad. The cause soon became apparent, for he fixed his unsure gaze on her, smiled ingenuously and attempteda bow. 

"Pardon me, " he said, leaning carefully towards her. "Pardon me, butthe sight of an English lady----"

Miss Gregory nodded. "All right, " she said. 

He hitched his chair closer to her; his three companions exchangedglances, and one of them made as though to nudge him, but hesitatedand finally forbore. 

"In. A general way, " said the youth confidentially, "I wouldn'tventure to speak to you. But "--and he broke into smiles--"I'm on meway home myself. "

"I see, " answered Miss Gregory. 

He beamed at her, fatuous and full of pride. "On me way home, " herepeated. "For good. No more Africa for me. I've 'ad just upon eightyears of it--eight years of sun an' bugs an' fever, and now I'm goinghome. " He paused and looked at her impressively. "I've made mypile, " he said. 

"That's good, " said Miss Gregory. She saw the three others exchangeanother glance. 

The English youth was rapt; for some moments his eyes were unseeing, and his lips moved without sound. It was not difficult to see whathome meant for him, a goal achieved at hazard, something familiar andsympathetic, worth all the rest of the world. He came back to hissurroundings with a long sigh. 

"You don't happen to know Clapham Junction, ma'am?" he suggested. "Not the station, I don't mean, but the place? No? Well, that's whereI'm off to. I 'aven't seen a tramcar for eight years; it'll be queerat first, I expect. " He looked round him slowly at the low bare roomand the men in white clothes and the whispering night without. "Mymother takes lodgers, " he added inconsequently. 

"She will be glad to see you, " said Miss Gregory. 

"She will that, " he agreed. He dropped his voice to the tones ofconfidence. "I got an idea, " he said. "Give her a surprise. I'll goalong to the house just about dark and say I'm lookin' for a room. Eh? And she'll begin about terms. Then I'll begin. 'Never you mindabout terms, ' I'll say. ''Ere's the price of eight years sweatin', and God bless you, old lady!'" He blinked rapidly, for his eyes werewet. "What do you think of that for a surprise?"

"Capital!" agreed Miss Gregory. "Are you going down the Coast by theboat to-morrow?"

"That's it, " he cried. "I'm going second-class, like a gentleman. Home, by gosh!"

"Then, " suggested Miss Gregory, eyeing his sullen companions, "don'tyou think it would be best if you went and got some sleep now? Youwouldn't care to miss the boat, I suppose?"

He stared at her. "No, " he said, as if the contingency had justoccurred to him. He sat back; his mild, insignificant face wore alook of alarm. "No, I shouldn't. It wouldn't do. " His voice droppedagain. "It wouldn't do, " he repeated. "I've got it on me, an' thisain't what you call a moral place. "

Miss Gregory nodded comprehendingly. "I know, " she said. "So wouldn'tit be as well on all accounts to get to bed behind a locked door?"

"You've hit it, " he said. "That's what I got to do--and lock thedoor. That's common sense, that is. " He stared at her for an instant, then rose with care and deliberation to his feet. He had altogetherforgotten his companions; he did not even see them. 

"That is, if it'll lock, " he added, and held out his hand to MissGregory. 

"Good-bye, " she said, taking it heartily. "I'm glad to hear of yourgood fortune. "

He gulped and left her, walking forth through the little tables withthe uncanny straightness of the man "in liquor. " Miss Gregory drankup her coffee and sat where she was. 

She could see the men at the next table out of the corner of her eye;their heads were together, and they were whispering excitedly. Thewhole affair was plain enough to a veteran of the world's byways likeMiss Gregory; the plan had been to make the youth drunk, help himforth, and rob him easily in some convenient corner. He was the kindof man who lends himself to being robbed; the real wonder was that ithad not been done already. But, mingled with her contempt for hishelplessness, Miss Gregory felt a certain softening. His hominginstinct, as blind as that of a domestic animal, his rejoicing in hisreturn, his childish plan for taking his mother by surprise, even hisloyalty to the tramcars and all the busy littleness of ClaphamJunction--these touched something in her akin to the goodness ofmotherhood. It occurred to her that perhaps he had been better offunder the lights of the cafe than alone on his way to his bed; and atthat moment the three men at the next table, their conference over, rose and went out. She sat still till they were clear; then, on animpulse of officiousness, got up and went out after them. 

Their white clothes shone in the darkness to guide her; they cutacross the square and vanished in one of those dark alleys she hadalready remarked. Miss Gregory straightened her felt hat, took afresh grip of the stout umbrella, and followed determinedly. Thecorner of the alley shut out the lights behind her; tall walls withscarce windows fast shuttered hemmed her in; the vast night of thetropics drooped its shadow over her. Through it all she plodded atthe gait familiar to many varieties of men from Poughkeepsie toPekin, a squat, resolute figure, reckless alike of risk and ridicule, an unheroic heroine. There reached her from time to time the noisesthat prevail in those places--noises filtering thinly throughshutters, the pad of footsteps, and once--it seemed to come from someroof invisible above her--the sound of sobbing, abandoned, strangled, heart-shaking sobs. She frowned and went on. 

A spot where the way forked made her hesitate; the men she wasfollowing were no longer in sight. But as she pondered there came toguide her a sudden cry, clear and poignant, the shout of a startledman. It was from the right-hand path, and promptly, as though on asummons, she bent her grey head and broke into a run in the directionof it. As she ran, pounding valiantly, she groped in her pocket for adog-whistle she had with her; she took it in her lips, and, neverceasing to run, blew shrill call upon call. Her umbrella was poisedfor war, but, rounding a corner, she saw that her whistling had doneits work; three white jackets were making off at top-speed. It takeslittle to alarm a thief; Miss Gregory had counted on that. 

It was not till she fell over him that she was aware of the man onthe ground, who rolled over and cried out at the movement. She put asteady hand on him. 

"Are you hurt?" she asked eagerly. 

He groaned; his face was a pale blur against the earth. 

"They've got me, " he said. "They stuck a knife in my back. I'mbleeding; I'm bleeding. "

"Get up, " bade Miss Gregory. "Bleeding or not, we must get away fromhere. Up you get. "

She pulled him to a sitting position, and he screamed and resisted, but Miss Gregory was his master. By voice and force she brought himupright; he could stand alone, and seemed surprised to find it out. 

"Take my arm, " she ordered him. "Lean on it; don t be afraid. Now, where are your rooms?"

"On this way, " he sobbed. 

Evidently he had an ugly wound, for at each few steps he had to stopand rest, and sometimes he swayed, and Miss Gregory had to hold himup. His breath came hastily; he was soft with terror. "They'll comeback! they'll come back!" he gabbled, tottering on his feet. 

"They're coming now; I can hear them, " replied Miss Gregory grimly. "Here, lean in this doorway behind me, man. Stop that whimpering, will you! Now, keep close. "

She propped him against the nail-studded door, and placed herselfbefore, him, and the three robbers, bunched together in a group, stealing along the middle of the way, might almost have gone pastwithout seeing them. But it was not a chance to trust to. MissGregory let them come abreast of her; her whole honest body was tenseto the occasion; on the due moment she flung herself forward and thebrandished umbrella rained loud blows on aghast heads; and at thesame time she summoned to her aid her one accomplishment--sheshrieked. She was a strong woman, deep-chested, full-lunged; her rawyell shattered the stillness of the night like some crazy trumpet; itbroke from her with the suddenness of a catastrophe, nerve-sapping, ear-scaring, heart-striking. Before it and the assault of the stoutumbrella the robbers broke; a panic captured them; they squealed, clasped at each other, and ran in mere senseless amaze. The Latinblood, when diluted with Coast mixtures, is never remarkable forcourage; but braver men might have scattered at the alarm of thatmighty discordancy attacking from behind. 

Fortunately the door they sought was not far off; through it theyentered a big untidy room, stone-floored as the custom is, andlittered with all the various trifles a man gathers about him on theCoast. Miss Gregory put her patient on the narrow bed and turned tothe door; true to his fears, it would not lock. The youth was verypale and in much fear; blood stained the back of his clothes, and hiseyes followed her about in appeal. 

"You must wait a little, " Miss Gregory told him. "I'll look at thatwound of yours when I've seen to the door. No lock, of course. " Shepondered frowningly. "It's a childish thing at the best, " she addedthoughtfully; "but it may be a novelty in these parts. Have you everarranged a booby trap, my boy?"

"No, " he answered, wonderingly. 

Miss Gregory shook her head. "The lower classes are getting worse andworse, " she observed. She put a chair by the door, which stood alittle ajar, and looked about her. 

"As you are going away you won't want this china. " It was his ewerand wash-hand basin. "I don't see anything better, and it'll make asmash, at any rate. "

"What you goin' to do, ma'am?" asked the man on the bed. 

"Watch, " she bade him. It was not easy, but with care she managed topoise the basin and the ewer in it on top of the door, so that itleaned on the lintel and must fall as soon as the door was pushedwider. 

"Now, " she said, when it was done, "let's have a look at that cut. "

It was an ugly gash high in the back, to the left of the spine--abungler's or a coward's attempt at the terrible heart-stab. MissGregory, examining it carefully, was of opinion that she could havedone it better; it had bled copiously, but she judged it not to bedangerous. She washed it and made a bandage for it out of a couple ofthe patient's shirts, and he found himself a good deal morecomfortable. He lay back on his bed with some of the color restoredto his face, and watched her as she moved here and there about theroom with eyes that were trustful and slavish. 

"Well, " said Miss Gregory, when she had completed an examination ofthe apartment, "there doesn't seem to be much more one can do. They'll come back, I suppose? But of course they will. How much moneyhave you got about you?"

"About two thousand pounds, ma'am, " he said, meekly. 

"H'm!" Miss Gregory thought a moment. "And they know it? Of course. "She added her little sharp nod of certainty. "Well, when they comewe'll attend to them. "

There was a tiny mirror hanging from a nail, and she went to it, patted her grey hair to neatness, and re-established her felt hat ontop of it. The place was as still as the grave; no noise reached itfrom without. The one candle at the bedside threw her shadowmonstrously up the wall; while she fumbled with her hatpins itpictured a looming giantess brandishing weapons. 

She was still at the mirror, with hatpins held in her mouth, when thesteps of the robbers made themselves heard. The man on the bedstarted up on his elbow, with wide eyes and a sagging mouth. MissGregory quelled him with a glance, then crossed the floor and blewthe candle out. In the darkness she laid her hat down that it mightnot come to harm, and put a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder, it was quaking, and she murmured him a caution to keep quiet. Together, with breath withheld, they heard the men in the entry ofthe house, three of them, coming guardedly. Miss Gregory realizedthat this was the real onslaught; they would be nerved for shrieksthis time. She took her hand from the youth's shoulder with anotherwhispered word, and stepped to the middle of the room and stoodmotionless. The noise of breathing reached her, then a foot shuffled, and on the instant somebody sprang forward and shoved the door wide. 

The jug and basin smashed splendidly; whoever it fell on uttered alittle shrill yell and paused, confounded by the darkness. MissGregory, her eyes more tuned to it, could make out the blur of whiteclothes; with noiseless feet she moved towards them. She was allpurpose and directness; no tremor disturbed her. As calmly as shewould have shaken hands with the Consul she reached forward, felt herenemy, and delivered a cool and well-directed thrust. An appallingyell answered her, and she stepped back a space, the hatpin heldready for another attack. There was a tense instant of inaction, andthen the three rushed, and one bowled her over on the floor and fellwith her. 

Miss Gregory fell on her side, and before she was well down the steelhatpin, eight inches long of good Paris metal, plunged and found itsprey. The man roared and wallowed clear, and she rose. The big roomwas wild with stamping feet and throaty noises such as dogs make. Thebedside chair, kicked aside struck her ankles; she picked it up andthrew it at the sounds. It seemed to complicate matters. The placewas as dark as a well, and she moved groping with her hands towardsthe bed. Some one backed into her--another yell and a jump, and, asshe stepped back, the swish of a blow aimed towards her that barelymissed her. Then she was by the bed, feeling over it; it was empty. 

She had some moments of rest; every one was still, save for harshbreathing. But she dared not stand long, lest their eyes too shouldadapt themselves to the dark. It was evident that nobody hadfirearms; there was that much to be thankful for. She gatheredherself for an attack, a rush at the enemy with an active hatpin, when something touched her foot. She bent, swiftly alert for war, butarrested the pin on its way. It was a hand from under the bed; herprotege had taken refuge there. She took his wrist and pulled; hewhimpered, and there was a grunt from the middle of the room at thesound, but he came crawling. She dared not whisper, for those otherswere moving already, but with her cool, firm hand on his wrist, shesank down on all-fours and drew him on towards the door. It wasimpossible to make no noise, but at any rate their noise wasdisconcerting; the robbers could not guess what it betokened. Each ofthem had his stab, a tingling, unaccountable wound, a hurt to daunt aman, and they were separately standing guard each over his own life. 

They encountered one half way across the room. He felt them near him, and sent a smashing blow with a knife into the empty air. MissGregory, always with that considered and careful swiftness that wasso like deliberation, reared to her knees, her left hand stillholding the youth's wrist, and lunged. Another yell, and the man, leaping back, fouled a comrade, who stabbed and sprang away. Theyheard the man fall and move upon the floor like a dying fish, withsounds of choking. Then the door was before them, and, crawlingstill, with infinite pains to be noiseless, they passed through it. From within the room the choking noises followed them till theygained the open air. 

The tortuous alley received them like a refuge; they fled along itwith lightened hearts, taking all turnings that might baffle a chase, till at last Miss Gregory smelt acacias and they issued again intothe little square. To Miss Gregory it was almost amazing that thecafes should still be lighted, their tables thronged, the musicinsistent. While history had paced for her the world had stood still. She stood and looked across at the lights thoughtfully. 

The youth at her side coughed. "The least I can do, " he suggestedinanely, "is ask you to 'ave a cup of coffee, ma'am. "

Miss Gregory turned on him sharply. 

"And then?" she asked. "After the coffee, what then?"

He shuffled his feet uneasily. "Well, ma'am, " he said; "this hole inmy back is more'n a bit painful. So I thought I'd get along to thehotel an' have a lie down. "

She looked at him thoughtfully. Her head was bare, and the nightbreeze from the sea whipped a strand of grey hair across her brow. She brushed it away a little wearily. 

"Unless there's anything more I can do for you, " suggested the youngman smoothly. 

Anything more he could do for her! She smiled, considering him. Theevents of the night had not ruffled him; his blonde face was stillmild, insignificant, plebeian. Of such men slaves are made; theirpart is to obey orders, to be without responsibility, to be guided, governed, and protected by their betters. Miss Gregory, sister of aMajor-General, friend of Colonial Governors, aunt of a Member ofParliament, author of "The Saharan Solitudes, " and woman of theworld, saw that she had served her purpose, her work was done. 

"Thank you, " she said; "there is nothing more. You had better go tobed at once. "

There was a broken fountain in the middle of the square, overgrownwith sickly lichen, and round it ran a stone bench. The acaciassheltered it, and a dribble of water from the conduit sounded always, fitting itself to one's thoughts in a murmuring cadence. Here MissGregory disposed herself, and here the dawn found her, a littledisheveled, and looking rather old with the chill of that bleak hourbefore the sun rises. But her grey head was erect, her broad backstraight, and the regard of her eyes serene and untroubled always. She was waiting for the hour when the Consul would be accessible; hewas the son of her dearest friend. 

"And I must not forget, " she told herself--"I really must not forgetto attend to that hotel man. "

VII

THE MASTER

Papa Musard, whenever he felt that he was about to die, whichhappened three times a year at least, would beckon as with a fingerfrom the grimy Montmartre tenement in which he abode and call Rufinto come and bid him farewell. The great artist always came; he neverfailed to show himself humble to humble people, and, besides, PapaMusard had known Corot--or said that he had--and in his capacity of amodel had impressed his giant shoulders and its beard on the work ofthree generations of painters. 

The boy who carried the summons sat confidently on the kerb outsidethe restaurant at which Rufin was used to lunch, and rose to his feetas the tall, cloaked figure turned the corner of the street andapproached along the sunlit pavement. 

"Monsieur Musard said you would be here at one o'clock, " heexplained, presenting the note. 

"Then it is very fortunate that I am not late, " said Rufin politely, accepting it. "But how did you know me?"

The boy--he was aged perhaps twelve--gave a sophisticated shrug. 

"Monsieur Musard said: 'At one o'clock there will approach an artistwith the airs of a gentleman. That is he. '"

Rufin laughed and opened the note. While he read it the boy watchedhim with the admiration which, in Paris, even the rat-like gamin ofthe streets pays to distinction such as his. He was a tall mansplendidly blonde, and he affected the cloak, the slouch hat, thepicturesque amplitude of hair which were once the uniform of theartist. But these, in his final effect, were subordinate to 'acertain breadth and majesty of brow, a cast of countenance at oncebenign and austere, as though the art he practiced so supremely bothexacted much and conferred much. He made a fine and potent figure ashe stood, with his back to the bright street and the gutter-childstanding beside him like a familiar companion, and read the smudgedscrawl of Papa Musard. 

"So Musard is very ill again, is he?" he asked of the boy. "Have youseen him yourself?"

"Oh yes, " replied the boy; "I have seen him. He lies in bed and histemper is frightful. "

"He is a very old man, you see, " said Rufin. "Old men have much tosuffer. Well, tell him I will come this afternoon to visit him. Andthis"--producing a coin from his pocket--"this is for you. "

The gamin managed, in some fashion of his own, to combine, in asingle movement, a snatch at the money with a gesture of politedeprecation. They parted with mutual salutations, two gentlemen whohad carried an honorable transaction to a worthy close. A white-aproned waiter smiled upon them tolerantly and held open the doorthat Rufin might enter to his lunch. 

It was in this manner that the strings were pulled which sent Rufinon foot to Montmartre, with the sun at his back and the streetschirping about him. Two young men, passing near the Opera, salutedhim with the title of "maitre;" and then the Paris of sleekmagnificence lay behind him and the street sloped uphill to the PlacePigalle and all that region where sober, industrious Parisians worklike beavers to furnish vice for inquiring foreigners. Yet steeperslopes ascended between high houses toward his destination, and hecame at last to the cobbled courtyard, overlooked by window-dottedcliffs of building, above which Papa Musard had his habitation. 

A fat concierge, whose bulged and gaping clothes gave her the aspectof an over-ripe fruit, slept stonily in a chair at the doorway. Rufinwas not certain whether Musard lived on the fourth floor or thefifth, and would have been glad to inquire, but he had not thecourage to prod that slumbering bulk, and was careful to edge pastwithout touching it. The grimy stair led him upward to find out forhimself. 

On the third floor, according to his count, a door looked like whathe remembered of Musard's, but it yielded no answer to his knocking. A flight higher there was another which stood an inch or so ajar, andthis he ventured to push open that he might look in. It yielded him aroom empty of life, but he remained in the doorway looking. 

It was a commonplace, square, ugly room, the counterpart of a hundredothers in that melancholy building; but its window, framing a saw-edged horizon of roofs and chimneys, faced to the north, and someone, it was plain, had promoted it to the uses of a studio. An easelstood in the middle of the floor with a canvas upon it; the wallswere covered with gross caricatures drawn upon the bare plaster withcharcoal. A mattress and some tumbled bedclothes lay in one corner, and a few humble utensils also testified that the place was adwelling as well as a workshop. 

Rufin looked back to be sure that no one was coming up the stairs, and then tiptoed into the room to see what hung on the easel. 

"After all, " he murmured, "an artist has the right. "

The picture on the easel was all but completed; it was a quarter-length painting of a girl. Stepping cautiously around the easel, hecame upon a full view of it suddenly, and forthwith forgot all hisprecautions to be unheard. Here was a thing no man could keep quiet!With his first glance he saw--he, himself a painter, a creator, ajudge--that he stood in the presence of a great work of art, avision, a power. 

"But here!" he exclaimed amazedly. "Of all places--here!"

The painted face looked out at him with all the sorrowful wisdom thatis comprised in a life sharpened on the grindstone of a remorselesscivilization. It was a girl such as one might find anywhere in thatneighborhood, she had the hardy prettiness, the alertness, thepredatory quality which belong to wild creatures civilized by force. It was set on the canvas with a skill that made Rufin smile withfrank pleasure; but the skill, the artifice of the thing, were theleast part of it. What was wonderful was the imagination, the livinginsight, that represented not only the shaped product of a harshexistence, but the womanhood at the root of it. It was miraculous; itwas convincing as life is convincing; it was great. 

Rufin, the painter whose fame was secure, upon whom Art had showeredgifts, gazed at it, absorbed and reverent. He realized that in thispicture his age had achieved a masterpiece; he was at least thecontemporary of an immortal. 

"Ah!" he said, with an impulse of high indignation. "And while hepaints here and sleeps on the floor, they buy my pictures!"

He stepped back from the easel. He was equal to a great gesture, asto a great thought. As though he had greeted a living princess, heswept his hat off in a bow to the work of this unknown fellow. 

Papa Musard in his bed, with his comforts--mostly in bottles--arranged within his reach, found it rather shocking that adistinguished artist should enter the presence of a dying man like--as he remarked during his convalescence--a dog going into a pond. Hesat up in astonishment. 

"Musard, " demanded Rufin abruptly, "who is the artist who lives inthe room below this?"

"Oh, him!" replied Papa Musard, sinking back on his pillow. "M'sieurRufin, this is the last time I shall appeal to you. Before long Ishall again be in the presence of the great master, of Corot, of himwho----"

Rufin, it seemed, had lost all respect both for Corot and death. Hewaved an imperious arm, over which his cloak flapped like a blackwing. 

"Who is the artist in the room below?" repeated Rufin urgently. "Doyou know him?"

"No, " replied Papa Musard, with emphasis. "Know him--an Italian, aruffian, an apache, a man with hair on his arms like a baboon! I donot know him. There!"

He was offended; a dying man has his privileges, at least. The face, gnarled and tempestuously bearded, which had been perpetuated by ahundred laborious painters, glared from the pillow at Rufin withindignation and protest. 

Rufin suppressed an impulse to speak forcibly, for one has no moreright to strip a man of his pose than of his shirt. He smiled at theangry invalid conciliatingly. 

"See how I forget myself!" he said apologetically. "We artists areall alike. Show us a picture and our manners go by the board. Withyou, Musard, need I say more?"

"You have said a lot, " grumbled the ancient of days. "Coming inroaring like a bull! What picture has upset you?"

"A picture you have not seen, " said Rufin, "or you would be graspingmy hand and weeping for joy--you who know pictures better than usall!" He surveyed the invalid, who was softening. Musard knew no moreof pictures than a frame-maker; but that was a fact one did notmention in his presence. 

"Since Corot, " sighed Musard, "I have seen few pictures which were--en effet--pictures. "

"You have great memories, " agreed Rufin hastily. "But I have justseen a picture--ah, but a picture, my friend!"

The old cunning face on the pillow resisted the charm of his manner, the gentleness of his appeal. 

"Not his?" demanded Papa Musard. "Not in the room underneath? Not oneof the daubs of that assassin, that cut-throat, that Italian?"

Rufin nodded, as though confirming a pleasant surprise. "Is it notstrange, " he said, "how genius will roost on any perch? It is true, then, that he is a person who offends your taste? That is bad. Tellme about him, Musard. "

He reached himself a chair and sat down near the foot of the bed. 

"You are always making a fuss of some worthless creature, " grumbledMusard. "I do not even know the man's name. They speak of him asPeter the Lucky--it is a nickname he has on the streets, an apachename. He has been in prison, too, and he bellows insults at hiselders and betters when they pass him on the stairs. He is a man ofno soul!"

"Yes, " said Rufin. "But did you say he had been in prison?"

"I did, " affirmed Musard. "Ask anyone. It is not that I abuse him; heis, in fact, a criminal. Once he threw an egg at a gendarme. And yetyou come to me--a dying man--and declare that such a creature canpaint! Bah!"

"Yes, " said Rufin, "it is strange. "

It was clearly hopeless to try to extract any real information fromPapa Musard; that veteran was fortified with prejudices. Rufinresigned himself to the inevitable; and, although he was burning witheagerness to find the painter of the picture he had recently seen, towelcome him into the sunlight of fame and success, he bent his mindto the interview with Papa Musard. 

"I have had my part in the development of Art, " the invalid wassaying at the end of three-quarters of an hour. "Perhaps I have nothad my full share of recognition. Since Corot, no artist has beenmagnanimous; they have become tradesmen, shopkeepers. "

"You are hard on us, Musard, " said Rufin. "We're a bad lot, but we doour best. Here is a small matter of money that may help to make youcomfortable. I'm sorry you have such an unpleasant neighbor. "

"You are going?" demanded Musard. 

"I must, " said Rufin. "To-morrow I go into the country for someweeks, and nothing is packed yet. "

"Corot would not have left an old man to die in solitude, " remarkedMusard thoughtfully. 

Rufin smiled regretfully and got away while he could. Papa Musard inan hour could wear down even his patience. 

The painter's room was still unlocked and unoccupied as he descendedthe stairs; he entered it for another look at the picture. He neededto confirm his memory, to be assured that he had not endowed the workwith virtue not its own. The trivial, cheaply pretty face fronted himagain, with its little artificial graces only half-masking the sore, tormented femininity behind it. Yes, it was the true art, thepoignant vision, a thing belonging to all time. 

In the courtyard the fat concierge was awake, in a torpid fashion, and knitting. She lifted her greedy and tyrannical eyes at the tallfigure of Rufin, with its suggestion of splendors and dignities. Butshe was not much more informative than Papa Musard had been. 

"Oh, the painter!" she exclaimed, when she understood who was inquestion. "Ah, M'sieur, it is two days since I have seen him. He isnot of a punctual habit--no! How often have I waked in the blacknessof night, upon a frightful uproar of the bell, to admit him, and hemaking observations at the top of his voice that would cause a fishto blush! An Italian, M'sieur--yes! But all the same it astonishes noone when he is away for two days. "

"The Italians are like that, " generalized Rufin unscrupulously. "Hisdoor is unlocked, Madame, and there is a picture in his room whichis--well, valuable. "

"He sold the key, " lamented Madame, "and the catches of the window, and the bell-push, and a bucket of mine which I had neglected towatch. And he called me a she-camel when I remonstrated. "

"In Italian it is a mere jest, " Rufin assured her. "See, Madame, thisis my card, which I beg you to give him. I am obliged to leave Paristo-morrow, but on my return I shall have the honor to call on him. And this is a five-franc piece!"

The big coin seemed to work on the concierge like a powerful drug. She choked noisily and was for the while almost enthusiastic. 

"He shall have the card, " she promised. "I swear it! After all, artists must have their experiences. Doubtless the monsieur whoresides above is a great painter?"

"A very great painter, " replied Rufin. 

His work, during the next three weeks, exiled him to a green solitudeof flat land whose horizons were ridged by poplars growing besideroads laid down as though with a ruler, so straight they were as theysliced across the rich levels. It was there he effected the vitalwork on his great picture, "Promesse, " a revelation of earth gravidwith life, of the opulent promise and purpose of spring. It is thegreater for what lodged in his mind of the picture he had seen in theMontmartre tenement. It was constant in his thought, the while henoted on his canvas the very texture of the year's early light; itaided his brush. In honesty and humbleness of heart, as he worked, heacknowledged a debt to the unknown Italian who stole the key of theroom to sell, and called his concierge a she-camel. 

It was a debt he knew he could pay. He, Rufin, whose work was in theLuxembourg, in galleries in America, in Russia, in the palaces ofkings, could assure the painter of Montmartre of fame. He went toseek him on the evening of his return to the city. 

The fat concierge preserved still her burst and overripe appearance, and at the sight of him she was so moved that she rose from her chairand stood upright to voice her lamentations. 

"Monsieur, what can I say? He is gone! It was a nightmare. It is truethat he omitted to pay his rent--a defect of his temperament, withoutdoubt. But the proprietor does not make these distinctions. Afterthree weeks he would expel Michelangelo himself. The monsieur who wasdriven out--he resisted. He employed blasphemies, maledictions; hesmote my poor husband on the nose and in the stomach--all to nopurpose, for he is gone. I was overcome with grief, but what could Ido?"

"At least you know whither he went?" suggested Rufin. 

"But, M'sieur, how should I know? His furniture--it was not much--wasimpounded for the rent, else one might have followed it. He took awaywith him only one picture, and that by force of threats andassaults. "

"Oh yes, of course he would take that, " agreed the artist. 

"He retired down the street with it, walking backward in the middleof the road and not ceasing to make outcries at us, " said theconcierge. "He uttered menaces; he was dangerous. Could I leave mypoor husband to imperil myself by following such a one? I ask M'sieurcould I?"

"I suppose not, " said Rufin, staring at her absently. He wasthinking, by an odd momentary turn of fancy, how well he could havespared this gruesome woman for another look at the picture. 

"Who are his friends?" he inquired. 

But the concierge could tell him nothing useful. 

"He had no friends in the house, " she said. "Our poor honest people--he treated them with contumely. I do not know his friends, M'sieur. "

"Ah, well, " said Rufin, "I shall come across him somehow. "

He saluted her perfunctorily and was about to turn away, but theavidity of her face reminded him that he had a standard to live upto. He produced another five-franc piece and was pursued to the gateby the stridency of her gratitude. 

A man--even a man of notable attributes and shocking manners--is aseasily lost in Paris as anywhere; it is a city of many shadows. Atthe end of some weeks, during which his work had suffered from hisnew preoccupation, Rufin saw himself baffled. His man had vanishedeffectually, carrying with him to his obscurity the great picture. Itwas the memory of that consummate thing that held Rufin to his taskof finding the author; he pictured it to himself, housed in somegarret, making the mean place wonderful. He obtained the unofficialaid of the police and of many other people whose business in life iswith the underworld. He even caused a guarded paragraph to appear incertain papers, which spoke temperately of a genius in hiding, forwhom fame was ripe whenever he should choose to claim it. But Parisat that moment was thrilled by a series of murders by apaches, andthe notice passed unremarked. 

In the end, therefore, Rufin restored himself to his work, richer bya memory, poorer by a failure. Not till then came the last accidentin the chain of accidents by which the matter had presented itself tohim. 

Some detail of quite trivial business took him to see an official atthe Palais de Justice, In the great Salle des Pas Perdus there was, as always, a crowd of folk, jostling, fidgeting, making a clamor ofmixed voices. He did not visit it often enough to know that the crowdwas larger than usual and strongly leavened with an element offurtive shabby men and desperate calm women. He found his officialand disposed of his affair, and the official, who was willing enoughto be seen in the company of a man of Rufin's position, rose politelyto see him forth, and walked with him into the noisy hall. 

"You are not often here, Monsieur Rufin?" he suggested. "And yet, asyou see, here is much matter for an artist. These faces, eh? All thebrigands of Paris are here to-day. In there"--and he pointed to oneof the many doors--"the trial is proceeding of those apaches. "

"A great occasion, no doubt, " said Rufin. He looked casually towardsthe door which his companion indicated. "Of course I have read of thematter in the newspapers, but----"

He ceased speaking abruptly. A movement in the crowd between him andthe door had let him see, for a space of seconds, a girl who leanedagainst the wall, strained and pale, as though waiting in a patientagony for news, for tidings of the fates that were being decidedwithin. From the moment his eyes rested on her he was sure; there wasno possibility of a mistake; it was the girl whose face, reproduced, interpreted, and immortalized, looked forth from the canvas he hadseen in the Montmartre tenement. 

"Two of them held the gendarme, while the third cut his throat withhis own sword. A grotesque touch, that--vous ne trouvez pas? tresfort!"--the official was remarking when Rufin took him by the arm. 

"That girl, " he said. "You see her?--against the wall there. I cannottalk with her in this crowd, and I must talk to her at once. Where isthere some quiet Place?"

"Eh?" The little babbling official had a moment of doubt. But hereflected that one is not a great artist without being eccentric; andhis amiable brow cleared. 

"She is certainly a type, " he said, peering on tiptoe. "Wonderful!You cast your eye upon all this crowd and at once, in a singleglance, you pluck forth the type--wonderful! As to a place, that iseasy. My office is at your service. "

The girl lifted hunted and miserable eyes to the tall, grave man wholooked down upon her and raised his hat. 

"I have something to say to you, " he said. "Come with me. "

A momentary frantic hope flamed in her thin countenance. It sank, andshe hesitated. Girls of her world are practiced in discounting suchrequests. But Rufin's courteous and fastidious face was abovesuspicion; without a word she followed him. 

The office to which he led her was an arid, neat room, an economicallegal factory for making molehills into mountains. A desk and certainchairs stood like chill islands about its floor; it had the forlornatmosphere of a waiting-room. The little official whose workshop itwas held open the door for them, followed them in, and closed itagain. "Do not be alarmed, my child, " he said to the tragic girl. "This gentleman is a great artist. You will be honored in servinghim. "

Rufin stilled him with an upraised hand and fetched a chair for thegirl. She rested an arm on the back of it, but did not sit down. Shedid not understand why she had been brought to this room, and staredwith hard, preoccupied eyes at the tall man with the mild, stillface. 

"I recognized you by a picture I saw some months ago in a room inMontmartre, " said Rufin. 

"It was a great picture, the work of a great man. "

"Ah!" The girl let her breath go in a long sigh. "Monsieur knows him, then? And knows that he is a great man? For he is--he is a greatman!"

She spoke with passion, with a living fervor of conviction, but hereyes still appealed. 

"You and I both know it quite certainly, Mademoiselle, " repliedRufin. "Everybody will know it very soon. It is a truth that cannotbe hidden. But where is the picture?!"

"I have it, " she answered. 

"Take care of it, then, " said Rufin. "You have a great trust. And thepainter--have you got him, too?"

She stared at him, bewildered. "The painter? The painter of thepicture?"

"Of course, " said Rufin. "Who else?"

"But----" she looked from him to the benign official, who had the airof presiding at a ceremony. "Then you don't know? You haven't heard?"

Comprehension lit in her face; she uttered a wretched little laugh. 

"Ah, v'la de la comedie!" she cried. "No, I haven't got him. Theyhave taken him from me. They have taken him, and in there"--herforefinger shot out and pointed to the wall and beyond it--"in there, in a room full of people who stare and listen, they are making himinto a murderer. "

"Then--parbleu!" The little official was seized by comprehension asby a fit. "Then there is an artist--the artist of whom you talk--whois one of the apaches! It is unbelievable!"

At the word apaches the girl turned on him with teeth bared as thoughin a snarl. But at the sound of Rufin's voice she subsided. 

"What is his name--quickly?" he demanded. 

"Giaconi, " she answered. 

Rufin looked his question at the little official, who turned to thegirl. 

"Peter the Lucky?" he queried. 

She nodded dejectedly. 

The little official made a grimace. "It was he, " he said, "who didthe throat-cutting. Tiens! this begins to be a drama. "

The girl, with drooping head, made a faint moan of protest andmisery. Rufin signed the little man to be silent. The truth, if hehad but given it entertainment, had offered itself to him from thefirst. All he had heard of the man, Papa Musard's slanderous-soundingcomplaints of him, the fat concierge's reports of his violence, hadgathered towards this culmination. He had insisted upon thinking ofhim as a full-blooded man of genius, riotously making little ofconventions, a creature abounding in life, tinctured a little, perhaps, with the madness that may spice the mind of a visionary andenrage his appetites. It was a figure ha had created to satisfyhimself. 

"It was false art, " he reflected. "That is me--false art!"

Still, whatever he had seen wrongly, there was still the picture. Apache, murderer, and all the rest--the fellow had painted thepicture. No one verdict can account for both art and morals, andthere was reason to fear, it seemed, that the law which executed amurderer would murder a painter at the same time--and such a painter!

"No, " said Rufin, unconsciously speaking aloud--"no; they must notkill him. "

"Ah, M'sieur!" It was a cry from the girl, whose composure hadbroken utterly at his words. "You are also an artist--you know!"

In a hysteria of supplication she flung herself forward and was onher knees at his feet. She lifted clasped hands and blinded eyes; shewas like a child saying its prayers but for the writhen torture ofher face, where wild hopes and lunatic terrors played alternately. 

"M'sieur, you can save him! You have the grand air, M'sieur; there isGod in your face; you make men hear you! For mercy--for blessedcharity--ah, M'sieur, M'sieur, I will carry your sins for you; I willgo to hell in your place! You are great--one sees it; and he isgreat, too! M'sieur, I am your chattel, your beast--only save him, save him!"

It tore the barren atmosphere of the office to rags; it made theplace august and awful. Rufin bent to her and took her clasped handsin one of his to raise her. 

"I will do all that I can, " he said earnestly. "All! I dare not doless, my child. "

She gulped and shivered; she had poured her soul and her force forth, and she was weak and empty. She strained to find further expression, but could not. Rufin supported her to the chair. 

"We must see what is happening in this trial, " he said to the littleofficial. "We have lost time as it is. "

"I will guide you, " replied the other happily. "It!-is a situation, is it not? Ah, the crevasses, the abysses of life! Come, my friend. "

From the Salle des Pas Perdus a murmur reached them. They entered itto find the crowd sundered, leaving empty a broad alley. 

"Qu'est ce qu'y a?" The little official was jumping on tiptoe to seeover the heads in front of him. "Is it possible that the case isfinished?"

A huissier came at his gesture and found means to get them through tothe front of the crowd, which waited with a hungry expectation. 

"The case is certainly finished, " murmured the little man. 

A double door opened at the head of the alley of people, and half adozen men in uniform came out quickly. Others followed, and they camedown toward the entrance. In the midst of them, their shabby civilianclothes contrasting abruptly with the uniforms of their guards, slouched four men, handcuffed and bareheaded. 

"It is they, " whispered the official to Rufin, and half turned hishead to ask a question of the huissier behind them. 

Three of them were lean young men, with hardy, debased, animalcountenances. They were referable at a glance to the dregs ofcivilization. They had the stooped shoulders, the dragging gait, thehalf-servile, half-threatening expression that hallmarks the apache. It was to the fourth that Rufin turned with an overdue thrill ofexcitement. A young man--not more than twenty-five--built like a bullfor force and wrath. His was that colossal physique that develops inthe South; his shoulders were mighty under his mean coat, and hischained wrists were square and knotty. He held his head up with asort of truculence in its poise; it was the head, massive, sensuous-lipped, slow-eyed, of a whimsical Nero. It was weariness, perhaps, that give him his look of satiety, of appetites full fed and dormant, of lusts grossly slaked. A murmur ran through the hall as he passed;it was as though the wretched men and women who knew him uttered aninvoluntary applause. 

"There is Peter, " said some one near Rufin. "Lucky Peter; Quelhomme!"

The Huissier was memorizing for the little official the closing sceneof the trial. Rufin heard words here and there in his narrative. "Called the judges a set of old . . . Laughed aloud when they askedhim if . . . Yes, roared with laughter--roared. " And then for thefinal phrase: "Condamnes a la mort!"

"You hear?" inquired the little official, nudging him. "It is toolate. They are condemned to death, all of them. They have theiraffair!"

Rufin shrugged and led the way back to the office. But it was empty;the girl had gone. 

"Tiens!" said the official. "No doubt she heard of the sentence andknew that there was no more to be done. "

"Or else, " said Rufin thoughtfully, frowning at the floor--"or elseshe reposes her trust in me. "

"Ah, doubtless, " agreed the little man. "But say, then! It has beenan experience, hein? Piquant, picturesque, moving, too. For I am notlike you; I do not see these dramas every day. "

"And you fancy I do?" cried Rufin. "Man, I am terrified to find whatgoes on in the world. And I thought I knew life!" With a gesture ofhopelessness and impotence he turned on his heel and went forth. 

The business preserved its character of a series of accidents to theend; accidents are the forced effects of truth. Rufin, havingorganized supports of a kind not to be ignored in a republican state, even by blind Justice herself, threw his case at the wise grey headof the Minister of Justice--a wily politician who knew the uses ofadvertisement. The apaches are distinctively a Parisian produce, andif only Paris could be won over, intrigued by the romance andstrangeness of the genius that had flowered in the gutter, and givento the world a star of art, all would be arranged and the guillotinewould have but three necks to subdue. France at large would onlyshrug, for France is the husband of Paris and permits her hercaprices. It rested with Paris, then. 

But, as though they insisted upon a martyr, the apaches themselvesintervened with a brisk series of murders and outrages, the last ofwhich they effected on the very fringe of the show-Paris. It was nota sergent de ville this time, but a shopkeeper, and the city frothedat the mouth and shrieked for revenge. 

"After that, " said the Minister, "there is nothing to do. See foryourself--here are the papers! We shall be fortunate if fourexecutions suffice. "

Rufin was seated facing him across a great desk littered withdocuments. 

"Why not try if three will serve?" he suggested. 

The minister smiled and shook his head. He looked at Rufin halfhumorously. 

"These Parisians, " he said, "have the guillotine habit. If they taketo crying for more, what old man can be sure of dying in his bed? Mygrandfather was an old man, and his head fell in the Revolution. "

"But this, " said Rufin, rustling the newspapers before him--"this isclamor. It is panic. It is not serious. "

"That is why I am afraid of it, " replied the Minister. "I am alwaysafraid of a frightened Frenchman. But, sans blague, my friend, Icannot do what you wish. "

Rufin put the piled newspapers from him and leaned forward to plead. 

It was useless. The old man opposite him had a manner as deft andunassuming as his own; it masked a cynical inflexibility of purposeproof against any appeal. 

"I cannot do it, " was his single answer. 

Rufin sighed. "Then it remains to see the President, " he suggested. 

"There is that, " smiled the Minister. "See him by all means. If youare interested in gardening, you will find him charming. Otherwise, perhaps--but an honest man, I assure you. "

"At least, " said Rufin, "if everything fails, if the great painter isto be sacrificed to the newspapers and your epigrams--at least youwill allow me to visit him before--before the----"

"But certainly!" the Minister bowed. "I am eager to serve you, Monsieur Rufin. When the date is fixed I will write you a permission. You three shall have an interview; it should be a memorable one. "

"We three?" Rufin waited for an explanation. 

"Exactly. You two great artists, Monsieur Rufin and Monsieur Giaconi, and also the murderer, Peter the Lucky. "

The old man smiled charmingly; he had brought the negotiations to apoint with a mot. 

"Adieu, cher maitre, " he said, rising to shake his visitor's handacross the wide desk. 

Rufin seemed to have trodden into a groove of unsuccess. All hisefforts were futile; he saw himself wasting time and energy whilefate wasted none. The picture came to hang in his studio till theLuxembourg should demand it; daily its tragic wisdom and tenaciousfemininity goaded him to new endeavors, and daily he knew that hespent himself in vain. 

He did not even realize how much of himself he had expended till thatraw morning before the dawn when he drove across Paris in a damp andmournful cab, with the silent girl at his side, to a little squarelike a well shut in by high houses whose every window was lighted. There was already a crowd waiting massed under the care of mountedsoldiers, and the cab slowed to a walk to pass through them. From thewindow at his side he saw, with unconscious appreciation, the pictureit made, an arrangement of somber masses with yellow windows shining, and in the middle the gaunt uprights, the severe simplicity of theguillotine. 

Faces looked in at him, strange and sudden, lit abruptly by thecarriage-lamps. Somebody--doubtless a student--peered and recognizedhim. "Good morning, maitre, " he said, and was gone. Maitre--master!Men did him honor in so naming him, gave him rank, deferred to him. But he acknowledged life for his master, himself for its pupil andservant. 

The girl had not spoken since they started; she remained sittingstill in her place when the cab halted at a door, and it needed hishand on her arm to rouse her to dismount. She followed him obedientlybetween more men in uniform, and they found themselves in a corridor, where an officer, obviously waiting there for the purpose, greetedRufin with marked deference. 

"There is no need, " he said, as Rufin groped in his pockets for thepermit with which he had been provided. "I have been warned to expectMonsieur Rufin and the lady, and I congratulate myself on the honorof receiving them. "

"He knows we are coming?" asked Rufin. 

"Yes, he knows, " replied the other. "At this moment his toilet isbeing made. " He sank his voice so that the mute, abstracted girlshould not overhear. "The hair above the neck, you know--they alwaysshave that off. It might be better that mademoiselle should not see. "

"Possibly, " agreed Rufin, looking absently at his comely, insignificant face, which the lamps illuminated mercilessly. 

The girl stood with her hands loosely joined before her, and her thinface vacant, staring, as though in a mood of deep thought, along thebare passage. Suddenly she addressed the officer. 

"How long shall I be with him, " she inquired, in tones of an almostarrogant composure, "before they cut his head off?"

The words, in their matter-of-fact directness, no less than the tone, seemed to startle the officer. 

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he protested, as though at an indelicacy or anaccusation. 

"How long?" repeated the girl. 

"Kindly tell mademoiselle what she wishes to know, " directed Rufin. 

The officer hesitated. "It does not rest with me, " he saiduncomfortably. "You see, there is a regular course in these matters, a routine. I hope mademoiselle will have not less than ten minutes. "

The girl looked at Rufin and made a face. It was as though she hadbeen overcharged in a shop; she invited him, it seemed, to take noteof a trivial imposture. Her manner and gesture had the repressedpower of under-expression. He nodded to her in entire comprehension. 

"But, " began the officer excitedly, "how can I----" Rufin turned onhim gravely, a somber, august figure of reproof. 

"Sir, " he said, "you are in the presence of a tragedy. I beg you tobe silent. "

The officer made a hopeless gesture; the shadow of it fledgrotesquely up the walls. 

A few moments later the summons came that took them along the passageto an open door, giving on to a room brilliant with lights andcontaining a number of people. At the farther end of it a tableagainst the wall had been converted into a sort of altar, with wancandles alight upon it, and there was a robed priest among theuniformed men. Those by the door parted to make way for them. Rufinsaw them salute him, and removed his hat. 

Somebody was speaking. "Regret we cannot leave you alone, but----"

"It does not matter, " said Rufin. The room was raw and aching withlight; the big electrics were pitiless. In the middle of it a man saton a chair and raised expectant eyes at his arrival. It was Giaconi, the painter, the murderer. There was some disorder of his dress whichRufin noted automatically, but it was not for some minutes that heperceived its cause--the collar of his coat had been shorn away. Theman sat under all those fascinated eyes impatiently; his tired andwhimsical face was tense and drawn; he was plainly putting a strongconstraint upon himself. The great shoulders, the huge arms, all thecompressed strength of the body, made the effect of some stronganimal fettered and compelled to tameness. 

"Rufin?" he said hesitatingly. 

The painter nodded. "Yes, it is Rufin. "

The girl glided past him toward the seated man. "And I, Pietro, " shesaid. 

He made a gesture with his hand as though to move her aside, for shestood between him and Rufin. 

"Ah, " she cried, "do you not need me at all--even now?"

"Oh, what is it?" said the condemned man, with a quick irritation. "Is this a time! There is not a moment to spare. I must speak toRufin--I must. Yes, kneel down; that's right!"

She had sunk at his knee and laid her brown head upon it. As thoughto acknowledge the caress of a dog, he let one hand fall on her bowedshoulders. His eyes traveled across her to Rufin. 

"They told me you would come. Say--is it because of my picture?"

"Yes, " said Rufin. "I have done all that I could to save you becauseof that. But----"

"I know, " said the other. "They have told me. You like it, then--mypoor 'Mona Lisa' of Montmartre?"

Rufin stepped closer. It was not easy to utter all he desired to sayunder the eyes of those uniformed men, with the sad, attentive priestin the background. 

"Monsieur, " he said, "your picture is in my studio. Nothing shallever hang in its place, for nothing will be worthy. "

The seated man heard him hungrily. For the moment he seemed to haveforgotten where he was and what was to happen to him ere he drew manymore breaths. 

"I knew, " he said, "I knew. I can paint. So can you, Monsieur--sometimes. We two---we know!"

He frowned heavily as realization returned to him. "And now I nevershall, " he said. "I never shall! Ah, it is horrible! A man is twopeople, and both die like a single soul. You know, for you are anartist. "

"I--I have done my best, " said Rufin despairingly. "If I could goinstead and leave you to paint--oh, believe me, I would go nowgladly, proudly, for I should have given the world pictures--greatpictures. "

A spasm of emotion filled his eyes with tears, and some one touchedhis arm and drew him aside. He strove with himself fiercely andlooked up again to see that three men had entered the room and weregoing toward the prisoner. The priest had come forward and wasraising the kneeling girl. 

"A moment, " cried the prisoner, as the three laid hands upon him. "Just a moment. " They took no notice. "Monsieur Rufin, " he cried, "itis my hand I offer you--only that. "

Somebody near Rufin spoke a brief order and the three were still. Hesaw Giaconi's intent face across their shoulders, his open handreaching forward between them. He clasped it silently. 

The priest had set the girl on her knees before the improvised altarand stood beside her in silence. The three, with no word spoken, proceeded with their business. With deft speed they lashed theirman's hands behind his back, forcing them back with rough skill. Thechief of them motioned his subordinates to take him by the elbows andsigned to the priest with his hand. The priest came forward, holdingthe crucifix, and took his place close to the prisoner. For a finaltouch of the grotesque the executioner produced and put on a tallsilk hat. 

"March!" he said, and they took the condemned man toward the door. Hetwisted his head round for a last glance at the room. 

"Good-bye, little one!" he cried loudly. The kneeling girl onlymoaned. 

"Good-bye, M'sieur Rufin. "

Rufin stepped forward and bowed mechanically. 

"Adieu, Maitre, " he answered. 

He saw that the condemned man's eyes lightened, a flush rose in hisface; he smiled as if in triumph. Then they passed out, and Rufin, after standing for a moment in uncertainty, crossed the room andknelt beside the girl, with his hands pressed to his ears. 

VIII

"PARISIENNE"

"At least, " said the Comtesse, still staring at the brisk fire in thesteel grate--"at least he saw them with his own eyes. "

She was thinking aloud, and Elsie Gray, her distant relative andclose companion, only looked up without reply. The Comtesse's facestood in profile against the bright appointments of the fireplace, delicate and serene; the tall salon, with its white panels gleamingdiscreetly in the light of the candles, made a chaste frame for herfragile presence. The window-curtains had been drawn to shut out theevening which shed its damp melancholy over the Faubourg, and to thegirl the great, still room seemed like a stage set for a drama. Shesat on a stool beside the Comtesse's chair, her fingers busy withmany-colored skeins of silk, and the soft stir of the fire and thetick of a little clock worked themselves into her patient thoughts. 

"He was to come at nine, I think, " said the Comtesse at last, withoutturning her head. 

"Yes, " said Elsie, leaning forward to look at the little clock. "Itstill wants twenty minutes. "

The Comtesse nodded slowly; all her gestures had the gentledeliberation of things done ceremonially. 

"It is not much longer to wait, is it?" she said. "After twentyyears, one should be patient. But to think! To-night, for the firsttime I hear of Jeanne from one who saw her at the end. Not a lawyerwho has sought out the tale and rearranged it, but one who knew. Yousee, Elsie?"

Elsie put a hand on her arm, and her little thrill of excitement diedout at once. 

"Yes, " said the girl; "I see, but you must be tranquil. "

"I will be tranquil, " promised the Comtesse. "I will haveconsideration for my heart. It is only the waiting which tries me. "

"And that is nearly at an end. " Elsie released her arm, and theComtesse turned again to the fire. The tick of the clock renewed itstiny insistence; the great room again enveloped them in the austerityof its silence. The girl returned to the silk strings in her lap. Sheknew the occasion of the Comtesse's sudden emotion; it was a familiartale, and not the loss familiar for being told in whispers. She hadheard it first when she came from her English home to be theComtesse's companion. It had been told to her officially, as it were, to guide her in her dealings with the Comtesse. A florid Frenchuncle, with a manner of confidential discretion that made her blush, had been the mouthpiece of the family, and from him she had learnedhow Jeanne, the Comtesse's half-sister, had run away with a rogue, aman who got his deserts, an officer in a regiment stationed inAlgeria. 

"Eventually he committed suicide, but before that there werepassages, " the French uncle had said. The dreadful word "passages"seemed to contain the story, and he gave it an accent of unspeakablesignificance. "The Comtesse has suffered, " he told her further. "Itwas a sad affair, and she had much tenderness for Jeanne. " And that, at first, seemed to be the whole of it, though once or twice theuncle checked himself on the brink of details. But on this eveningthe tale was to be told afresh. There had arrived from Africa oneColonel Saval, who had served with the sorry hero of poor Jeanne'sromance; he had known him and dealt with him; and he was appointed tocome to the Comtesse in the quality of eye-witness. 

He was punctual, at all events; the little clock was yet strikingwhen the gaunt footman opened the door and spoke his name. TheComtesse looked up, and Elsie Gray rose to receive him; he advancedand made his bow. 

"Madame la Comtesse?" he said, with a faint note of inquiry. TheComtesse's inclination answered him. "Madame la Comtesse honors me. Iam happy to be of service. "

He bowed to Elsie, who gave him "Good evening;" the footman setforward a chair for him and withdrew. His white hair stood about hishead like a delicate haze; under it, the narrow wise face was brick-red, giving news of his long service under the sun of North Africa. He was short and slight, a tiny vivacious man, full of charmingformalities, and there was about him something gentle and suave, thatdid not quite hide a trenchant quality of spirit. He stood beforethem, smiling in a moment of hesitation, half paternal, whollygallant. 

"Madame la Comtesse is suffering, " said Elsie, in the spacious Frenchidiom. "There is little that she can say. But she thanks Monsieurmost sincerely for giving himself this trouble. But please beseated. "

He was active in condolences at once. "I am most sympathetic, " hesaid seriously. "And for the trouble"--he nicked it from him--"thereis no trouble. I am honored. "

The Comtesse bowed to him. "Monsieur is very amiable, " she murmured. 

He hitched up his chair and sat down, facing the pair of them. Hisshrewd eye took the measure of the Comtesse and her infirmity, without relinquishing a suggestion of admiration. He was a manpanoplied with the civil arts; his long career in camps and garrisonshad subtracted nothing of social dexterity. There was even a kind ofgrace in his attitude as he sat, his cane and hat in one hand, withone knee crossed upon the other. He spent a moment in consideration. 

"It is of the Capitaine Bertin that I am to speak? Yes?" he askedsuddenly. 

The Comtesse stirred a little in her chair. "Yes, " she answered, in avoice like a sigh--a sigh of relief, perhaps. 

"Ah!" He made a little gesture of acknowledgment. "Le CapitaineBertin! Then Madame will compose herself to hear little that isagreeable, for it is a tale of tragedy. " His eyes wandered for amoment; he seemed to be renewing and testing again the flavor ofmemories. Under his trim moustache the mouth set and grew harder. Then, without further preamble, he began to speak. 

"Bertin and I were of the same rank, " he said, "and of much the sameage. There was never a time when we were friends; there stood betweenus too pronounced a difference--a difference, Madame, of spirit, ofaim, and even of physique. Bertin was large, sanguine, with the faceof a bold lover, of a man noticeably gallant. I recall him mostvividly as he sat in a cafe behind a little round table. It was thusone saw him most frequently, with his hard, swarthy face andmoustaches that curled like a ram's horns. In such places he seemedmost at home, with men about him and cards ready to his hand; andyet--has Madame seen the kind of man who is never wholly at his ease, who stands for ever on his guard, as it were! Bertin was such a one;there were many occasions when I remarked it. He would be in thecentre of a company of his friends, assured, genial, dominant; andyet, at each fresh arrival in the room, he would look up withsomething furtive and defensive in his expression. I have seendeserters like that, but in Bertin it lacked an explanation. "

"And there was a further matter yet. He was my fellow officer; I sawhim on parade and at mess; but his life, the life of his own choice, was lived among those who were not our equals. How shall I make thatclear to you, Madame? In those days, Europe drained into Algiers; ithad its little world of men who gambled and drank much, andunderstood one another with a complete mistrust; it was with such asthese that Bertin occupied his leisure. It was with them that hisharshness and power were most efficacious. Naturally, it was notpleasant for us, his colleagues, to behold him for ever with suchcompanions; the most of them seemed to be men connected with onesport or another, with billiards, or racing, or the like; but therewas nothing to be done. "

The Comtesse shifted slightly in her chair. "He had power, " she saidthoughtfully. 

The little Colonel nodded twice. "He had power, as Madame observes. He had many good qualities--not quite enough, it is true, but many. There were even those that loved him, dogs, horses, waiters, croupiers and the poor women who made up the background of his life. I have thought, sometimes, that it is easy for a man to be loved, Madame, if he will take that responsibility. But what befell Bertinwas not commonplace. He returned to France on leave, for six months, and it was then, I believe, that he first met the lady who becameMadame Bertin?"

He gave the words the tone of a question, and the Comtesse answeredwith a slow gesture of assent. 

"Yes, I have heard that it was so, " said the Colonel. "Of what tookplace at that time I can tell nothing, naturally, and Madame is nodoubt sufficiently informed. But I saw him--I saw them both--within aweek of their return. Upon that occasion I dined at a hotel with twofriends, Captain Vaucher and Lieutenant de Sailles. Bertin, with somefriends and his wife, was at a table near-by. She was the only ladyof the party; her place was between an Englishman, a lean, twistedman with the thin legs of a groom, and a Belgian who passed for anartist. It was de Sailles who pointed them out; and in effect it wasa group to see with emotion. The lady--she was known to you, Madame?Then the position will be clear. She was of that complete and perfecttype we honor as the Parisienne, a product of the most complex lifein the world. She was slender and straight--ah! straight as a lance, with youth and spirit and buoyancy in the carriage of her head, thepoise of her body, the color upon her cheeks. But it was not that--the beauty and the courage--that caused her to stand out among thosemen as a climbing rose stands out from an old wall; it was theschooled and perfected quality of her, the fineness and delicacy ofher manner and expression, the--in short, the note of breeding, Madame, the unmistakable ensign of caste. The Englishman fidgeted andlounged beside her; the fat Belgian drank much and was boisterous;Bertin was harsh and rudely jovial and loud. It was as though shewere enveloped in a miasma. "

"'So that is what Bertin has brought back, ' said Vaucher slowly, ashis custom was. "

"'It is a crime, ' said de Sailles. "

"'I wonder, ' said Vaucher, and drank his wine. He was much my friend, a man with the courage and innocence of a good child; but his thoughtwas not easy to follow. He gave Bertin's group another look underpuckered brows, and then turned his back on it and began to talk ofother matters. I might have known then that--but I must tell my talein order. "

"Bertin was not wise--if it were nothing more--to bring such a wifeto Algiers. It turned eyes upon him. Those who had been aware of himmerely as a man of low tastes now began to notice his particularactions. He had a house in a certain impasse, and one night there wasa brawl there--an affair of a man drunk and angry, of a knife drawnand some one stabbed. Before, it might have passed; our disciplinewas indulgent; but now it took on the shape of a scandal. It wasbrief and ugly, but it marked a stage passed in Bertin's career. Andit was only two days later that Vaucher came to me in my quarterswith a manner at once deprecating and defiant. He sat in my arm-chairand laughed quietly before he spoke. "

"'I am looking for friends, ' he said; 'for a pair of friends. '"

"Then, of course, I understood. I bade him count on me. 'And there isalso de Sailles, ' I reminded him. 'He has a very just taste in theseaffairs. But who is our opponent?'"

"'It is Bertin, ' he answered. "

"I was astonished, and he told me all. It was an episode of quixotry, a thing entirely imprudent and altogether lovable in him. It chancedthat on the evening of Bertin's little--er--fracas, Vaucher hadpassed by the impasse in which Bertin lived. He had heard the screamof the man with the knife in him and paused. It was a dark night, andin the impasse there was but one lamp which stood near Bertin's door. There was a babble of many voices after that scream--shouts of fury, the whining of the would-be assassin, and so on; he was about to passon, when Bertin's door opened and a woman slipped out and stoodlistening on the pavement. Her attitude was that of one ready toflee, terrified but uncertain. As the noises within died down sherelapsed from her tense pose and showed her face to Vaucher in thelight of the lamp. It was Madame Bertin. She did not see him where hewaited, and all of a sudden her self-possession snapped like a twigyou break in your fingers. She was weeping, leaning against the wall, weeping desolately, in an abandonment of humiliation and impotence. But Vaucher was not moved when he told me of it. "

"'That I could have endured, ' he said. 'I held my peace and did notintrude upon her. But presently they brought the wounded mandownstairs, and Bertin came forth to seek a fiacre to take him away. She heard him ere he came out and gained thus the grace of aninstant. There was never anything in life so pitiful, so moving, asthe woman's strength that strangled down her sobs, dried the tears attheir source, and showed to her husband a face as calm as it wascold. He spoke to her and she gave him a word in answer. But'--and heleaned forward in my chair and struck his fist on the arm of it--'butthat poor victory is sore in my memory like a scar. "

"All that was comprehensible. Vaucher was a man of heart. 'But whatis the quarrel?' I demanded. "

"'The quarrel!' he repeated. 'Let me see; what was it, now?' He hadactually forgotten. 'Oh yes. He spoke to me. That was it. He spoke tome, and I desired him not to speak to me for the future, of course. '

"Madame, up to the time when I went with Vaucher to the ground I hadnot given a thought to the issue of the affair. I had taken it forgranted that Bertin would go down; at such seasons, one is blinded byone's sense of right. It lasted not two minutes. They fought with thesaber--our custom at that time. Though it was early in the morning, there was a strong sun; it made a flame on the blades as they salutedbefore engaging. Bertin was very sober and serious, but one had onlyto glance at him to perceive a very heat of wrath masked under hisheavy countenance. Vaucher was intent, wary, full of careful purpose. Their blades touched. 'All'ez!' There were a couple of moments offencing, of almost formal escrime, and then Vaucher lengthened hisarm and attacked. Bertin stepped back a pace, and, as Vaucheradvanced, he slashed with a high open cut, and it was over. Vaucherthrew up both hands and came to his knees. I remember that I stood, unable to move, staring aghast at this end to the affair; whileBertin threw down his sword, turned his back, and went to where hisclothes lay. At that moment he seemed as vast against the morning skyas a monument, as a sphinx carved out of a mountain. He had spoken noword. "

"We took Vaucher back to the city. It was a cut in the head. Madameshall be spared the particulars. I think he is living yet, but it wasthe end of him, none the less. "

The little Colonel's voice dropped on the last words. He did not takethe sympathy and friendship that waited for him in Elsie's grey eyes;he looked with a somber gaze at the Comtesse. She still held herfavorite attitude, leaning a little to one side in her great chair, so that she could watch the shifting shapes in the fire. She wassmiling slightly, but her smile vanished as the Colonel paused. 

"He was a gallant gentleman, " she said softly. Elsie turned her headto look at her, surprised, for the thing was said perfunctorily, inthe manner of a commonplace of politeness. 

Colonel Saval bowed. "Madame la Comtesse is only just, " he said. Buthe glanced sharply at her serene, preoccupied face with a manner ofsome dissatisfaction. 

He resumed his tale with a sigh. "After all, " he said, "there is notmuch to tell. I was not fortunate enough to meet Madame Bertinfrequently during the two years that followed. From time to time Isaw her, always with some wonder, for she preserved to the end thatdelicate and superb quality which so distinguished her. The scandalof the brawl was the small thing that was needed to turn Bertin'scourse downhill; almost from that day one could mark his decline. Itwas not a matter of incidents; it was simply that within a year mostof us were passing him without recognition, and there was talk ofdebts that troubled him. He had deteriorated, too; whereas of old hewas florid, now he was inflamed and gross; where he had been merelyloud, he was now coarse. Within eighteen months the Colonel had madehim a scene, had told him sour truths, and shaken his finger at him. That power of his, Madame, was not the power that enables a man tohold his level. Even with the companions of his leisure, hisascendancy faded. I recollect seeing him once, at the corner of thePlace du Gouvernement, in the centre of a group of them, ragingalmost tearfully, while they laughed at him. The horrible laughter ofthose outcasts, edged like a saw, cruel and vile! And he was purplewith fury, shaking like a man in an ague, and helpless against them. I was young in those days and not incapable of generous impulses; Irecollect that as I passed I jostled one of those creatures out ofthe path, and then turned and waited for the remonstrance which hedecided not to make. "

The Comtesse nodded at the fire, like one well pleased. The littleColonel gave her another of his shrewd glances and went on. 

"As you see, Madame, it is not possible to describe to you the stepsby which Bertin sank. The end came within two years of the duel. Oneknew--somehow--that it was at hand. There were things dropped intalk, things overheard and pieced together--a whole atmosphere ofscandal, in which there came and went little items of plain fact. Thetrouble was with regimental funds; again I will spare Madame thedetails; but certain of them which should have passed throughBertin's hands had not arrived at their destination. Clerks from abank came to work upon the accounts; strange, cool young men, whohunted figures through ledgers as a ferret traces a rat under afloor. You must understand that for the regiment it was a monstrousmatter, an affair to hide sedulously; it touched our intimate honor. There was a meeting of the rest of us to consider the thing; finally, it was I that was deputed to go forthwith to Bertin and persuade himto leave the city, to vanish, to do his part to save our credit. Andthat evening, as soon as it was dark enough to be convenient, Iwent. "

"There was still that light in the impasse by which my poor friendVaucher had seen Madame Bertin weeping; but from the windows of thehouse there came none. It was shuttered like a fort. It was not tillI had knocked many times upon the door that there came any response. At last I heard bolts being withdrawn--bolt after bolt, as if theplace had been a prison or a treasury; and Madame Bertin herselfstood in the entry. The one lamp in the impasse showed her myuniform, and she breathed like one who had been running. "

"I saluted her and inquired for Bertin. "

"'Captain Bertin?' she repeated after me. 'I do not know--I fear----'"

"'My business with him is urgent, ' I told her, and at that shewhitened. 'And unofficial, ' I added, therefore. "

"At that she stood aside for me to enter. I aided her to fasten thedoor again, and she led me up the stairs to a small room, divided bylarge doors from an inner chamber. "

"'If you will please be seated, ' she said, 'I will send CaptainBertin in to you. '"

"She was thinner, I thought, and perhaps a trifle less assured; butthat was to be understood. For the rest, she had the deliberate tonesof the salon, the little smile of a convention that is not irksome. Her voice, her posture, had that grace one knows and defers to atsight. It was all very wonderful to come upon in that house. As sheleft the room, her profile shone against the wall like a cameo, sosplendid in its pallor and the fineness of its outline. "

"She must have gone from the passage by another entrance to the roombeyond the double doors, for I heard her voice there--and his. Theyspoke together for some minutes, she at length, but he shortly; andthen the doors slid apart a foot or so, and he came through sideways. He gave me a desperate look, and pulled at the doors to close thembehind him. They stuck and resisted him, and he ceased his efforts atonce. "

"'You wanted to speak to me?' he asked. He seemed to be frowning as achild will frown to keep from bursting into tears. 'But notofficially, I believe? It is not official, is it?'"

"'No, ' I answered. 'It is a message--quite private. '"

"He ceased to frown at that, staring at me heavily, and chewing hismoustache. "

"'Sit down, ' he said suddenly, and came nearer, glancing over hisshoulder at the aperture of the doors. Something in that movementgave me the suggestion that he was accustomed to guard againsteavesdroppers; all those poor forlorn gamesters and wastrels are fullof secrets and privacies. One sees them for ever in corners withfurtive eyes for listeners, guiding their business likeconspirators. "

"I gave him my message at once. There was a need upon me for plainspeech with the man, like that need for cold steel which came uponpoor Vaucher. "

"'There is time for you to make your packages and be gone, ' I said. 'Time for that and no more, and I recommend you to let the packagesbe few. If you go, you will not be sought for. That is what I have tosay to you. '"

"He glanced over his shoulder again and came a step nearer. 'Youmean----'he said, and hesitated. "

"'The money? Yes, ' I answered. 'That is what I mean. You will go?"

"He stared at me a moment in silence. I felt as if I had struck himand spat in his face. But he had no such thought. "

"'How long have I?' he asked suddenly. "

"'You have to-night, ' I answered. "

"It seemed as if he were going to ask further questions, but at thatmoment Madame Bertin appeared in the doorway behind him. I knew shehad heard our talk. 

"'Your business is finished?' she asked carelessly, coming forwardinto the room. "

"'It is quite finished, ' I replied. "

"She nodded, smiling. 'Captain Bertin has to catch a train, ' shesaid, 'and if I did not watch the time for him, he would surely loseit. He has no idea of punctuality. '"

"'I hope he has not much packing to do, ' I said. "

"'I have seen to that, ' she replied. "

"'Then I will not intrude upon your adieux, ' I said, preparing todepart. Ma foi, I was ready to weep, as Vaucher had wept, at the gaycourage of her. But she stopped me. "

"'Oh, the adieux are complete like the packing, ' she said. 'And ifyou should have anything further to say to Captain Bertin, you candrive with him to the station. '"

"I could see her meaning in that; my company would guard him till heleft. So I bowed. "

"'I shall be very happy, ' I said. "

"'Then if you will send for a fiacre, ' she suggested to her husband. He was standing between us, wordless and dull. He gave her a look ofinquiry; she returned it with a clear, high gaze, and he went atonce. "

"'It is a good season for traveling, I believe!' she said, when thedoor had closed behind him. "

"'Captain Bertin could not have chosen a better, ' I assured her. "

"Her composure was more than wonderful; by no sign, no hint ofweakness or ill ease, did she make any appeal to me. To my sympathy, my admiration, my devotion, she offered only that bright surface ofher schooled manner and disciplined emotions. While her housecrumbled about her ears, while her world failed her, she deviated nota hairbreadth from the line of social amenity. "

"'But he is hardly likely to have company?' she asked again. "

"As for me, I had visions of the kind of company that was due to him--a formal sons-officer with a warrant of arrest, a file of stolidsoldiers, with rigid faces and curious eyes. "

"But I answered her in her own manner. "

"'There is certainly that drawback, ' I said, and I thought--I hoped--I saw gratitude in her answering look. "

"Then Bertin returned, with the hat of a civilian and a cloak thatcovered him to the ears. I saw their farewell--his look of appeal ather, the smile of amusement which answered it. And next I was seatedbeside him in the fiacre and she was framed in the door, lookingafter us, slender and erect, pale and subtle, smiling still with amanner as of weariness. It is thus that I remember her best. "

"It was not till we were out of her sight that Bertin spoke. He lit acigarette and stared up at the great white stars. "

"'She spoilt my luck from the first, ' he said. "

"I don't know why, but I laughed. At the moment it seemed to be avery droll saying. And at the sound of my laughter he grinned insympathy. He was a wonderful man. When he was established in thetrain, he held out his hand to me. "

"'Adieu, ' he said. 'You have been kind in your way. You didn't do itfor me, you know--so adieu!"

"I took his hand. It was a small thing to grant him, and I bad noother answer. As the train moved away, I saw his face at the windowof the carriage, full of a kind of sly humor--gross, amiable, andtragic! He waved me a good-bye. "

The Colonel paused, staring at his trimly booted toe. Madame laComtesse looked at him thoughtfully. 

"You saw him again? she asked. 

"Yes, " he answered. "But possibly the tale becomes too painful. "

The Comtesse passed a hand over her eyes. "I must hear the rest, " shesaid. "You saw her, too, again?"

"Yes, " said the Colonel. 

"She was very hard, " said the Comtesse thoughtfully. "Very hardalways. As a girl I remember----"

The Colonel was looking at her intently, as though some thought hadsuddenly brought him enlightenment. Both he and the Comtesse seemedquite to have forgotten Elsie, listening on her stool in bewildermentand compassion. She saw them now exchange guarded glances, as thoughmeasuring each other's penetration. 

The Comtesse leaned back. "I beg you to proceed, " she said, with asigh. Elsie reached over the arm of the chair and took her hand andheld it. 

The little Colonel shrugged his shoulders. 

"Since Madame la Comtesse wishes it, " he said. "But some yearselapsed before I saw either of them again. Madame Bertin had saidnothing which could encourage me to call at the house in the impasse, and there was no message from him to carry thither. I heard--it wassaid--that she, too, left the city; Bertin's exit from the servicewas arranged, and thus the matter seemed to close. I preservedcertain memories, which I still preserve; I was the richer by them. Then came active service, expeditions to the interior, some fightingand much occupation. It chanced that I was fortunate; I gained somecredit and promotion; and by degrees the affair of Bertin sank torest in the background of my life. It was a closed incident, and Iwas reconciled never to have it reopened. But it seems one can neverbe sure that a thing is ended; possibly Bertin in his hiding-placethought as I did and made the same mistake. I heard the news when Ivisited Algiers on my way to a post up-country at the edge of thedesert. New powers had taken charge of our business; there was a newGeneral, an austere, mirthless man, who knew of Bertin's existence, and resented it. He had been concerned here and there in more thanone enterprise of an unpleasant flavor, and it was the General'sintention to put a period to him. My friends in barracks told me ofit, perfunctorily; and my chief sense was of disgust that Bertinshould continue to be noticeable. And then I went away up-country, ina train that carried me beyond the borders of civilization, and setme down at last one dawn at a point where a military line trickledout into the vast yellow distance, against an undulated horizon ofsandhills. It was in the chill hour of the morning; a few sentrieswalked their beats, and beyond them there was a plot of silent tents. The station was no more than planks laid on the ground beside somelocked iron sheds, a tank for the engine, and a flagstaff. It wasinfinitely forlorn and empty, with an air of staleness anddiscomfort. At some distance, a single muffled figure sat apart on aseat; I thought it was some Arab waiting for the day. Be judge, then, of my amazement when it rose, as I would have passed it, andspoke. "

"'This, also, is a good season for traveling?' it said, and I spun onmy heel to face it. From the hood of a bernouse there looked out atme, pale and delicate still, the face of Madame Bertin. "

"In my bewilderment and my--my joy, I caught at both her hands andheld them for a moment. She smiled and freed herself gently, and hereyes mocked me. She was the same as ever, impregnably the same;stress of mind, sorrow, exile, loneliness--they could not avail tostir her from her pedestal of composure. That manner--it is the armorof the woman of the world. "

"'I came here on a camel, ' she told me, in answer to my inquiries. 'On a camel from my home. I understand now why chameau is a word ofabuse. '"

"'I am not very sure that the season is good for traveling, ' I said. "

"She shrugged her shoulders. 'When one is acclimatized, seasons areno longer important. '"

"'And you are acclimatized, Madame?' I asked her. "

"She showed me the bernouse. 'Even to this, ' she said. "

"Across the slopes of sand, one could hear the engine of the littlemilitary train grunting and wheezing as it collected its cars, andthe strident voice of a man cursing Arab laborers. "

"'You go by that train?' she asked me. "

"'To Torah, ' I answered. "

"'I also, ' she said, looking at me inquiringly. 

"I said I was fortunate to have her company, and it was plain thatshe was relieved. For I guessed forthwith that it was at Torah thatBertin was, and she knew that if my going thither were to arrest him, I would spare her. I am sure she knew that. "

"It was a journey of a day and a night, while that little trainrolled at leisure through a world of parched sand, beyond thesandhills to the eye-wearying monotony of the desert. Sometimes itwould halt beside a tank and a tent, while a sore-eyed man ran alongthe train to beg for newspapers. Over us, the sky rose in an archfrom horizon to horizon, blue and blinding; the heat was like a handlaid on one's mouth. I had with me my soldier-servant and a provisionof food; there was something of both ecstasy and anguish in servingher needs, in establishing her comfort. She talked little and alwaysso that I stood at a distance from her, fenced apart by littlegraceful formalities, groping hopelessly and vainly towards herthrough the clever mesh of her adroit speech and skilful remoteness. I was already fifteen years in the country, and fifteen years herinferior in those civilized dexterities. But she thanked me verysweetly for my aid. "

"Another dawn, and we were at Torah. A half-circle of dusty palmsleaned away to one side of the place, the common ensign of a well ona caravan route. The post was but a few structures of wood and mud, and, a little way off, the tents of the camp. In the east, the skywas red with foreknowledge of the sun; its light already lay paleover the meanness of all the village. I helped her from the train, and demanded to know whither I should conduct her. "

"'I will not give you further trouble, ' she said; and though Iprotested, she was firm. And at last she walked away, alone, to thehuddle of little buildings, and I saw her pass among them and out ofmy sight. Then I turned and went over to the camp, where my dutylay. "

"That was a sorrowful place, that Torah. The troops were chiefly menof the Foreign Legion, of whom three in every four expressed in theireyes only patience and the bitterness of men whose lives are hiddenthings. With them were some elderly officers, whose only enthusiasmsshowed themselves in a crazy bravery in action, the callous courageof men who have already died once. From some of these I heard ofBertin. It was a brown, sun-dried man who told me. "

"'Yes, we know him, ' he said. 'He passes under various names, but weknow him. A man wasted, thrown away, my friend! He should have joinedus. '"

"'You would have accepted him?' I asked. "

"'Why not?' was the answer. 'It is not honest men we ask for, nortrue men, nor even brave men--only fighting men. And any man can bethat. '"

"It made me wonder if it were yet too late for Bertin, 'and whetherhe might not still find a destiny in the ranks of that regiment whereso many do penance. But when I saw him, a week later, I knew that thechance had gone by with his other chances, It was in a cafe in thevillage, a shed open at one side to the little street of sand, andfurnished only with tables and chairs. A great Spahi, in the splendiduniform of his corps, lounged in one corner; a shrouded Arab tendedthe coffee apparatus in another; in the middle, with a glass beforehim, sat Bertin. The sun beat in at the open front of the buildingand spread the shadows in a tangle on its floor; he was leaning withboth elbows on the table, gazing before him with the eyes of a deadman. He had always promised to be stout, but he was already fat--aflabby, blue-jowled heap of a man, all thick creases and bulges; andhis face had patches of blue and purple in its hollows. He wasponderous, he was huge; and with it there was an aspect of horror, asthough all that flesh were diseased. "

"I paused by his table and slowly he looked up to me. His featureslabored with thought, and he recognized me. "

"'Saval!' he ejaculated hoarsely. 'You--you want me?'"

"I sat down at his table. 'I haven't come to arrest you, ' I told him. 'But you had better know that the authorities have decided to arrestyou. '"

"He gasped. 'For--for----'"

"'I don't know what for, ' I told him. 'For whatever you have beendoing. '"

"He had to blink and swallow and wipe his brow before he mastered thefact. His mind, like his body, was a shameful ruin. But the fact thathe was not to be arrested at the moment seemed to comfort him. Heleaned over the table to me. "

"'My wife's here, ' he said, in a raucous whisper. "

"'Yes; she knows, ' I answered. "

"He frowned, and seemed perplexed. 'She'll make me shoot myself, ' hewent on. 'I know what she means. I warn you, she'll make me do it. Have a drink?'"

"He was horrible, an offence to the daylight. He bawled an order tothe Arab, and turned to me again. "

"'That's what it'll come to, ' he said. 'I warn you. '"

"He repeated the last phrase in whispers, staring at me heavily: 'Iwarn you; I warn you. '"

"'Have you a pistol?' I asked him. Yes, Madame, I asked him that. "

"He smiled at me. 'No, I haven't, ' he said, still confidentially. 'You see how it is? I haven't even a pistol. But I know what shemeans. '"

"I was in field uniform, and I unbuttoned my holster and laid therevolver on the table before him. He looked at it with an emptysmile. 'It is loaded, ' I said, and left him. "

"But I wondered. It seemed to me that there was a tension in theaffairs of Bertin and his wife which could not endure, that themoment was at hand when the breaking-point would be reached. And itwas this idea that carried me the same evening to visit MadameBertin. The night about me was still, yet overhead there was wind, for great clouds marched in procession across the moon, trailingtheir shadows over the sand. Bertin inhabited a little house at thefringe of the village; it looked out at the emptiness of the desert. I was yet ten paces from the door when it opened and Madame Bertincame forth. She was wrapped in her bernouse, and she closed the doorbehind her quickly and stepped forward to meet me. She gave megreeting in her cool even tones, the pallor of her face shining forthfrom the hood of her garment. "

"'Since you are so good as to come and see me, ' she said, 'let uswalk here for a while. Captain Bertin is occupied; and we can watchthe clouds on the sand. '"

"We walked to and fro before the house. 'I saw your husband to-day, 'I told her. "

"'He said so, ' she answered. 'It was pleasant for him to talk with anold comrade. '"

"One window in the house was lighted, with a curtain drawn across it. As we paused, I saw the shadow of a man on the curtain--a man wholurched and pressed both hands to his head. I could not tell whetherMadame Bertin saw it also; she continued to walk, looking straightbefore her; her face was calm. "

"'Doubtless he has his occupations here?' I ventured presently. 'There are matters in which he interests himself--non?'"

"'That is so, ' she replied. 'And this evening he tells me he has aletter to write, concerning some matters of importance. I havepromised him that for an hour he shall not be interrupted. Whatwonderful color there is yonder?'"

"The shadow of a great cloud, blue-black like a moonlit sea, wasracing past us; it seemed to break like surf on a line of sandhills. But while I watched it awe was creeping upon me. She was erect andgrave, with lips a little parted, staring before her; the heavy foldsof the bernouse were like the marble robe of a statue. I glancedbehind me at the lighted window, and the shadow of an arm moved uponit, an arm that gesticulated and conveyed to me a sense of agony, ofappeal. I remembered the revolver; I felt a weakness overcome me. "

"'Madame!' I cried. 'I fear--I doubt that it is safe to leave him foran hour to-night. '"

"She turned to me with a faint movement of surprise. The moon showedher to me clearly. Before the deliberate strength of her eyes, mygaze faltered. "

"'But I assure you, ' she answered; 'nothing can be safer. '"

"I made one more effort. 'But if I might see him for an instant, ' Ipleaded. "

"She smiled and shook her head. I might have been an importunatechild. 'I promised him an hour, ' she said. Her voice was indulgent, friendly, commonplace; it made me powerless. I had it on my lips tocry out, 'He is in there alone, working himself up to the point ofsuicide!' But I could not utter it. I could no more say it than Icould have smitten her in the face. She was impregnable behind; thatbarrier of manners which she upheld so skillfully. She continued tolook at me for some seconds and to smile--so gently, so mildly. Ithink I groaned. "

"She began to talk again of the clouds, but I could not follow whatshe said. That was my hour of impotence. Madame, I have seen battlesand slaughter and found no meaning in them. But that isolated tragedyboxed up in the little house between the squalid town and thelugubrious desert--it sucked the strength from my bones. Shecontinued to speak; the cultivated sweetness of her voice came andwent in my ears like a maddening distraction from some grave matterin hand. I think I was on the point of breaking in, violently, hysterically, when I cast a look at the lighted window again. I criedout to her. "

"'Look! Look!' I cried. "

"She did not turn. 'I have seen the sea like that at Naples, ' she wassaying, gazing out to the desert, with her back to the house. 'Withthe moon shining over Capri----'"

"'For the love of God!' I said, and made one step toward the house. But it was too late. The shadowed hand--and what it held--rose; theshadowed head bent to meet it. "

"Even at the sound of the shot she did not turn. 'What was that?' shesaid tranquilly. "

"For the moment I could not speak. I had to gulp and breathe torecover myself. "

"'Let us go and see, ' I said then. 'The hour is past, and the letterof importance is finished. '"

"She nodded. 'By all means, ' she agreed carelessly, and I followedher into the house. "

"Once again I will spare Madame la Comtesse the details. Bertin hadevaded arrest. At the end of all his laborings and groanings, theinstant of resolution had come to him and he had made use of it. Onthe table were paper and writing-things; one note was finished. "

"'It is not for me, ' said Madame Bertin, as she leaned upon the tableand read it. I was laying a sheet upon the body; when I rose shehanded it to me. It bore neither name nor address; the poor futilelife had blundered out without even this thing completed. It wasshort, and to some woman. 'Tres-chere amie, ' it said; 'once I made amistake. I have paid for it. You laughed at me once; You would notlaugh now. If you could see----'"

The Colonel stopped; the Comtesse was holding out both hands asthough supplicating him. Elsie Gray rose and bent over her. TheComtesse put her gently aside. 

"You have that letter?" she asked. 

The little Colonel passed a hand into a breast pocket and extracted adainty Russia-leather letter-case. From it he drew a faded writingand handed it to the Comtesse. 

"Madame la Comtesse is welcome to the letter, " he said. "Pray keepit. "

The Comtesse did not read it. She folded it in her thin smooth handsand sighed. 

"And then?" she asked. 

"This is the end of my tale, " said the Colonel. "I took the letterand placed it in my pocket. Madame Bertin watched me imperturbably. "

"'I may leave the formalities to you?' she asked me suddenly; 'thenotification of death and so on?'"

"I bowed; I had still a difficulty in speaking. "

"'Then I will thank you for all your friendship, ' she said. "

"I put up my hand. 'At least do not thank me, ' I cried. I could notface her serene eyes, and that little lifting of the brows with whichshe answered my words. Awe, dread, passion--these were at war withinme, and the dead man lay on the floor at my feet, I pushed the dooropen and fled. "

Colonel Saval sat up in his chair and uncrossed his legs. 

"I saw her no more, " he said. "Madame la Comtesse knows how shereturned to Algiers and presently died there? Yes. "

The Comtesse bowed. "I thank you, Monsieur, " she said. "You have doneme a great service. "

"I am honored, " he replied, as he rose. "I wish you a good-night. Mademoiselle, good-night. "

He was gone. The white doors closed behind him. The Comtesse raisedher face and kissed the tall, gentle girl. 

"Leave me now, " she said. "I must read my letter alone. "

And Elsie went. The story was finished at last. 

IX

LOLA

Rubies ripped from altar cloths Leered a-down her rich attire; Hermad shoes were scarlet moths In a rose of fire. 

A. T. Quiller-Couch. 

From the briskness of the street, with its lamps aglitter in thelingering May evening, O'Neill entered to the sober gloom and therestless echoes of the great studio. He had come to hate the place oflate. The high poise of its walls, like the sides of a well, the paleshine of the north light in the roof, the lumber of naked marble andformal armor and the rest, peopling its shadows, were like a taintedatmosphere to him; they embarrassed the lungs of his mind. Only thename of friendship exacted these visits from him; Regnault, dyingwhere he had worked, was secure against desertion. 

Buscarlet opened the door to him, his eyes wide and bewildered behindhis spectacles. 

"How is he?" asked O'Neill curtly, entering the great room. 

"Ill, " answered the other. "Very ill, so that one cannot tell whetherhe sleeps or wakes. There should be a nun here to nurse him, only--"

O'Neill nodded. The sick man's bed was set in the centre of the greatroom, shielded from the draughts of the door by a tall screen of giltleather. From behind this screen, a shaded lamp by the bedside madean island of soft radiance in the darkness. 

They went together past the screen and stopped to look at Regnault. He was lying on his back, with closed eyes, and his keen aquilineface upturned to the pallor of the "light" in the roof. The whitehair tumbled on the pillow, and the long, beautiful hands that lay onthe coverlet were oddly pathetic in contrast to the potency of theunconscious face. Even in sleep it preserved its cast of highassurance, its note of ideals outworn and discounted. It was the faceof a man who had found a bitter answer for most of life's questions. By the bed sat Truelove, his servant, ex-corporal of dragoons. Herose noiselessly as O'Neill approached. 

"No change, sir, " he reported. "Talked a bit, an hour ago. Mr. Buscarlet was then 'ere. "

"Any attacks?" asked O'Neill. 

"One, sir, but I 'ad the amyl under 'is nose at the first gasp, an''e came round all right. "

"Good, " said O'Neill. "You go and get some supper now, Truelove. I'llattend to everything till you get back. "

The corporal bowed and went forthwith. O'Neill set the capsules outon the table to be easily accessible, and joined Buscarlet by thegreat fireplace at the end of the room, whence he could keep watch onthe still profile that showed against the gold of the screen. Fromwithout there came the blurred noises of the Paris street, mingledand blended in a single hum, as though life were laying siege to thatquiet chamber. 

Buscarlet was eager to talk. He was a speciously amiable little man, blonde and plump, a creature of easy emotions, prone to panic andtears. 

"Ah, he talked indeed!" he said, as soon as O'Neill was seated. "Atfirst I thought: 'This is delirium. He is returning to the age of hisinnocence. ' But his eyes, as he looked at me, were wise and serious. My friend, it gave me a shock. "

"What did he talk about?" asked O'Neill. 

Buscarlet coughed. "Of his wife, " he answered. "Fancy it!"

"His wife? Why, is he married?" demanded O'Neill in astonishment. 

Buscarlet nodded two or three times. "Yes, " he replied; "that is oneof the things that has happened to him. One might have guessed it, hein?--a life like that! Ah, my friend, there is one who has put outhis hours at usury. What memories he must have!"

O'Neill grunted, with his eyes on the bed. "He's had a beastly life, if that's what you mean, " he said, "Who was the woman?'

"One might almost have guessed that, too, " said Buscarlet. He rose. "Come and see, " he said. 

There was a recess beside the great mantelpiece, and in it hungRegnault's famous picture, "The Dancer, " all scarlet frock and whiteflesh against an amber background. 

"That?" exclaimed O'Neill. "Lola?"

Buscarlet nodded; he had forced a good effect. 

"That is she, " he answered. 

The picture was familiar to O'Neill; to him, as to many another youngpainter of that time, it was an upstanding landmark on the road ofart. He looked at it now, in the sparse light from the bedside lamp, with a fresh interest in its significance. He saw with newunderstanding the conventionalism of the pose--hip thrust out, armakimbo, shoulder cocked--contrasted against the dark vivacity of theface and all the pulsing opulence of the flesh. It was an epic, anepic of the savage triumphant against civilization, of the spiritvictorious against the forms of art. 

He stared at it, Buscarlet smiling mildly at his elbow; then heturned away and went back to his seat. The face on the bed wasunchanged. 

"So Regnault married Lola!" he said slowly. "When?"

"Ah, who knows?" Buscarlet shrugged graphically. "Many years ago, ofcourse. It is twenty years since she danced. "

"And what was he saying about her?" asked O'Neill. 

"Nothing to any purpose, " replied Buscarlet. "I think he had beendreaming of her. You know the manner he has of waking up--coming backto consciousness with eyes wide open and his mind alert, with nointerval of drowsiness and reluctance? Yes? Well, he woke like thatbefore I knew he had ceased to sleep. 'I should like to see her now, 'he said. 'Whom?' I asked, and he smiled. 'Lola, ' he answered, and hewent on to say that she was the one woman he had never understood. 'That was her advantage, ' he said, smiling still; 'for she understoodme; yes, she knew me as if she had made me. ' After a while, he smiledagain, and said, 'Yes, I should like to see her now. '"

O'Neill frowned thoughtfully. "Well, she ought to be here if she'shis wife, " he said. "Is she in Paris, d'you know? We might send forher. "

"I do not know, " replied Buscarlet. "Nobody knows, but I have heardshe retired upon religion. "

Their talk dwindled a little then. O'Neill found himself dwelling inthought upon that long-ago marriage of the great artist with Lola, the dancer. To him she was but a name; her sun had set in hisboyhood, and there remained only the spoken fame of her wonderfuldancing and a tale here and there of the fervor with which she hadlived. It was an old chronicle of passion and undiscipline, of avehement personality naming through the capitals of Europe, its trailmarked by scandals and violences, ending in the quick oblivion whichcomes to compensate for such lives. On the whole, he thought, such amarriage was what one would have looked for in Regnault; as Buscarletsaid, one might almost have guessed. He, with his genius and hisrestlessness, his great fame and his infamy, the high achievement ofhis art and the baseness of his relaxations, he was just such anotheras Lola. 

Friendship, or even the mere forms of friendship, are the touchstoneof a man. O'Neill was credited in his world with the friendship ofRegnault. It had even been to him a matter of some social profit;there were many who deferred willingly to the great man's intimate. O'Neill saw no reason to set them right, but he knew himself that hehad come by a loss in his close acquaintance with the Master. To knowhim at a distance, to be sure of just enough to interpret his work bythe clue of his personality, was a thing to be glad of. But if onewent further, incurred a part of his confidence, and ascertained hisreal flavor, then, as O'Neill once said, it was like visiting one'skitchen; it killed one's appetite. 

While he pondered, he was none the less watchful; he saw the changeon the still face as soon as it showed. With a quick exclamation hecrossed to the bed. Regnault's jaw had set; his eyes were wide andrigid. On the instant his forehead shone with sweat. Deftly andswiftly O'Neill laid his hands on a capsule, crushed it in his palm, and held it to the sick man's face. The volatile drug performed itsdue miracle. 

The face that had been a livid shell slackened again; the fixed glaresank down; and Regnault shuddered and sighed. Buscarlet, tremblingbut officious, wiped his brow and babbled commiserations. 

"Ah!" said Regnault, putting up a thin hand to stop him. "It takesone by the throat, this affair. "

Though he spoke quietly, his voice had yet the conscious fullness, the deliberate inflection, of a man accustomed to speak to anaudience. 

"Yes, " said O'Neill. "Were you sleeping?"

The sick man smiled. "A peu pres, " he answered. 

"I was remembering certain matters--dreaming, in effect. "

He shifted his head on his pillow, and his eyes traveled to and froabout the great room. 

"If this goes on, " he said, "I shall have to ask a favor ofsomebody. " His quick look, with its suggestion of mockery, rested onO'Neill. "And that would be dreadful, " he concluded. 

"If it's anything I can do, I'll do it, of course, " said O'Neillawkwardly. 

He aided Buscarlet to set the bed to rights and change the pillow-cover, conscious that Regnault was watching him all the time with asmile. 

"One should have a nun here, " remarked Buscarlet. "They come for somuch a day, and do everything. "

"Yes, " said Regnault;--"everything. Who could stand that!"

He shifted in his bed cautiously, for he knew that any movement mightprovoke another spasm. 

"Now, tell me, O'Neill, " he said, in the tone of commonplaceconversation. "That doctor--the one that walked like a duck--he wasimpressive, eh?"

O'Neill sat down on the foot of the bed. 

"He's the best man in Paris, " he answered. "He did his best to beimpressive. He thought we weren't taking your illness seriouslyenough. "

"Well, " said Regnault, his fingers fidgeting on the coverlet, "I canbe serious when I like. I'm serious now, foi de gentilhomme. Did hesay when I should die!"

"Yes, " replied O'Neill. "He said you'd break like the stem of a pipeat the first strain. "

Regnault's eyes were half closed. "Metaphor, eh?" he suggesteddreamily. 

"He said, " continued O'Neill, "that you were not to move sharply, notto laugh or cry, not to be much amused or surprised--in fact, youwere to keep absolutely quiet. He suggested, too, that you'd had yourshare of emotions, and would be better without them now. "

Regnault smiled again. "Wonderful, " he said softly. "They teach themall that in the hospitals. Then, in effect, I hold this appointmentduring good Conduct?"

"That's the idea, " said O'Neill gravely. 

There was a long pause; Regnault seemed to be thinking deeply. Theamyl had brought color back to his face; except for the disorder ofhis long white hair he seemed to be his normal self. 

"It will not be amusing, " he said at length. "For you, I mean. "

"Oh, I shall be all right, " answered O'Neill, but the same thoughthad occurred to him. 

"No, it will not be amusing to you, " repeated Regnault. "For thisgood Buscarlet it is another thing. I shall keep him busy. You likethat, don'it you, Emile?"

Poor Buscarlet choked and gurgled. Regnault laughed softly. 

"Take the lamp, Emile, " he said, "and carry it to 'The Dancer. ' Iwant to see it. "

Buscarlet was eager to do his bidding. O'Neill frowned as he pickedup the lamp. 

"Careful, " he said, in a low voice to Regnault. 

"Oh, " said Regnault, "this is not an emotion. " He laughed again. 

Across the room Buscarlet lifted the shade from the lamp and held itup. Again there came into view the white and scarlet of the picture, the high light on the bare shoulder, the warm tint of the naked arm, the cheap diablerie of the posture, the splendid rebellion of theface. Regnault turned and stared at it under drawn brows. 

"Thank you, Emile, " he said at last, and lay back on his pillow. Foran instant of forgetfulness his delicate face was ingenuous andexpressive; he caught himself back to control as he met O'Neill'seyes. 

"Il est un age dans la vie Ou chaque reve doit finir, Un age ou l'amerecueillie A besoin de se souvenir, "

he quoted softly. Buscarlet was fitting the shade on the lamp again. 

"I think, " Regnault went on, "that I have come to that, after all. Hetold you, eh? Buscarlet told you that she--Lola--is my wife?"

"Yes, " answered O'Neill. "Would you like me to send for her?"

"She would not come for that, " said Regnault. He was studying theyoung man's face with bright eyes. "Ah, " he sighed; "you don't knowthese things. We parted--of course; but not in weariness, not in thegrey staleness of fatigue and boredom. No; but in a splendid wreck ofwrath and jealousy and hatred. We did not run aground tamely; wesplit in vehemence on the very rock of discord. She would not comefor a letter. "

"Is she in Paris?" asked O'Neill. 

"No, in Spain, " answered Regnault. "At Ronda, in a great house on theedge of the hill, a house of small windows and strong doors. She isreligious, Lola is; she fears hell. Let me see; she must be near tofifty now. It is twenty years and more since I saw her. "

"But if I wrote, " began O'Neill again. 

"She would not come for a letter, " persisted Regnault. "What wouldyou write? 'He is dying, ' you would say, 'Poof!' she would answer, 'he has been dead this twenty years to me. '"

"Well, then, what do you suggest?"

Regnault opened his eyes and looked up sharply. He stretched out onelong slender hand in a sudden gesture of urgency. His face, upon themoment, recovered its wonted vivacity. 

"Go to her, " he said. "Go to her, O'Neill; you are young and long-legged; you have the face of one to whom adventures are due. She willreceive you. Speak to her; tell her--tell her of this gloomy room andits booming echoes and the little white bed in the middle of it. Makeyour voice warm, O'Neill, and tell her of all of it. Then, perhaps, she will come. "

There was no mistaking his earnestness. O'Neill stared at him inastonishment. Regnault moistened his lips, breathing hard. 

"Really, " said O'Neill, "I don't quite know how to answer you, Regnault. "

Regnault put the empty phrase from him with a movement of impatience. 

"Go to her, " he said again, and his brows creased in effort. "Is itbecause she is religious that you hesitate! You think I am an offenceto her religion? O'Neill, I will offer it no offence. I have myselfan instinct that way now. It is true. I have. "

"Wait, " said O'Neill. He was thinking confusedly. "You know you'relike a spoiled child, Regnault. You'd die for a thing so long as someone denied it you. Now, what strikes me is this. Your wife ought tobe with you, as a matter of decent usage and--and all that. But ifyou want her here just so that you can flog up the thrill of one ofyour old beastly adventures, I'll not lift a finger to help you. D'you see!"

Regnault nodded. Buscarlet, standing behind the bed, was tremblinglike a man in an ague. 

"I'll go to Ronda, and do what I can, " said O'Neill, "so long asyou're playing fair. But I've got to be sure of that, Regnault. "

Regnault nodded again. "I see, " he answered. "What shall I say toyou? Will you not trust me, O'Neill, in a question of taste? Morals--I don't say. But taste--come now!"

"You mean, you want to see your wife in ordinary affection and--well, and because she is your wife?" demanded O'Neill. 

"You put it very well, " replied Regnault placidly. "Give me somepaper and I will write you her name and address. And, O'Neill, I havean idea! I will give you, for your own, 'The Dancer. ' It shall be mylast joke. After this, I am earnest. "

He wrote painfully on the paper which they gave him. 

"There, " he said, when he had done. "And now I will compose myself. "

Buscarlet saw O'Neill forth of the door, for he was to leave forSpain in the morning. On the threshold he tapped O'Neill on the arm. 

"It is worth a hundred thousand francs, " he whispered, with startledeyes. "And besides, what a souvenir!"

The little room in which they bade O'Neill wait for the Senora openedupon the patio of the house, where a sword of vivid sunlight slicedacross the shadows on the warm brick flooring, and a littleindustrious fountain dribbled through a veil of ferns. There was ashrine in the room; its elaboration of gilt and rosy wax faced theopen door, and from a window beside it one could see, below theabrupt hill of Ronda, the panorama of the sun-steeped countryside. 

The cool of the room was grateful to O'Neill after the heat of theroad. He set his hat on the small table and took a seat, marking theutter stillness that reigned in that great Moorish house. Save forthe purr of the fountain no sounds reached him in all that nest ofcool chambers. The thought of it awoke in him new speculation as tothe woman he had come to see, who had buried the ashes of her fieryyouth in this serene retreat. He had thought about her with growingcuriosity throughout the journey from Paris, endeavoring to reduce toterms of his own understanding the spirit that had flamed and fadedand guttered out in such a manner. The shrine at his elbow recalledto him that she was "religious. " It explained nothing. 

He was staring at it in perplexity, when the doorway darkened, and hewas conscious that he was not alone. He started to his feet and bowedconfusedly to the woman on the threshold. 

"Mr. O'Neill?" she inquired. Her pronunciation had the faultlessprecision of the English-speaking Spaniard. He bowed again, and drewout a chair for her. 

It seemed that she hesitated a moment ere she came forward andaccepted it. When she stood in the door, with the slanting sun at herback, O'Neill could see little of her save the trim outline of herfigure, wrought to plain severity by the relentless black dress shewore. Now, when she was seated, he regarded her with all an artist'squick curiosity. As Regnault had said, she was not much less thanfifty years old, but they were years that had trodden lightly. Therewas nothing of age in the strong brows and the tempestuous eyes thatwere dark under them; the mouth was yet full and impetuous. Somediscipline seemed to have laid a constraint on her; there was asomber seriousness in her regard; but O'Neill recognized withoutdifficulty the proud, hardy, unquelled countenance that stared fromthe canvas in Regnault's studio. 

She had his visiting-card in her fingers. Lest he should be deniedadmittance he had penciled on it, below his name, "with a messagefrom M. Regnault, who is very ill. "

She was looking at him steadily, aware of his scrutiny. 

"I will hear your message, " she said. "Please sit down. "

O'Neill took a chair where he could continue to see her face. 

"Senora, " he said, "I must tell you, first of all, that M. Regnaultis ill beyond anything you can picture to yourself. He sends thismessage, in truth, from his last bed, the bed he is to die on. Andthat may be at any moment. His is a disease that touches the heart;any emotion or quick movement--anything at all, Senora, may cut offthe very source of his life. I ask you to have this in mind while youhear me. "

Her dark face was intent upon him while he spoke. 

"What do you call this disease?" she asked. 

"The doctors call it angina pectoris, " he answered. She noddedslowly. Her interest encouraged him to speak with more liberty. 

"I could tell you a great deal about it, " he went on; "but it mightbe aside from the point. Still--" he pondered a moment, studyingher. "Still, imagine to yourself how such a malady sits upon a manlike Regnault. It is a fetter upon the most sluggish; for him, withall his vivacity of temperament, his ardor, his quickness, it is arack upon which he is stretched. You do not know the studio he hasnow, Senora! It is a great room, with walls of black panels and awide window in the slope of the roof. Here and there are statues inmarble, suits of armor--the wreck and debris of dead ages. And in onecorner hangs a picture which the world values, Senora. It is called'The Dancer. '"

A spark, a quick gleam in her eyes, rewarded him. Her hands, crossedin her lap, trembled a little. 

"It is all of a dark and somber splendor, " O'Neill continued. "Agreat, splendid room, Senora, uncanny with echoes. And in the middleof it, like a little white island, there is a narrow bed where helies through the days and nights, camping on the borders of thegrave. There are some of us that share the watches by his bedside, tobe ready with the drug that holds him to life; and I can tell youthat it is sad there, in the hush and the shadows, with the noises ofParis rising about one from without. "

He ceased. She was frowning as she listened to him, with herresemblance to the pictured face in Paris strangely accentuated bythe emotions that warred within her. For a minute neither of themspoke. 

"I can see what you would have me see, " she said at last, raising herhead. "It belongs to that world in which I have now no part, Senior. No part at all. And it brings us no nearer to the message with whichyou are charged. "

"Your pardon, " said O'Neill. "It is a part of my message. And therest is quickly told. It is Regnault's request, his prayer to you, that you will come to him, to your husband. "

"Ah!" The constraint upon her features broke like ice under a quicksun. "I guessed it. I--to come to him! You should be his friendindeed, to be the bearer of such a message to me. "

Her dark eyes, suddenly splendid, flashed at him with strong anger. The whole woman was transformed; she sat up in her chair, and herbreast swelled. O'Neill saw before him the Lola of twenty yearsbefore. 

He held up one hand to stay her. 

"I should be his friend, as you say, " he told her. "But he knows thatit is not so. I came for two reasons: because now is not the time tobe discriminating in my service to him, and also because I am glad tohelp him to do right. I will take back what answer you please, Senora, for I came here with no great hopes; but still I am glad Icame, for the second reason. "

"Help him to do right!" She repeated the words in a manner ofperplexity. "What is it you mean to do right?"

O'Neill had a moment's clear insight into the aspects of his taskwhich made him unfit for it. "Eight" was a term that puzzled hisauditor. 

"Senora, " he answered gravely, "his passions are burned out. He istoo sick a man to do evil. It is late, no doubt, and very late; buthis mood is not to die as he has lived. He asks, not for those whowould come at a word, but for his wife. And I am glad to be thebearer of that message even if I carry back a curse for an answer. "

It was not in O'Neill to know how well and deftly Regnault had chosenhis messenger. His lean, brown face and his earnestness were havingtheir effect. 

The Senora bent her keen gaze on him again. 

"Ah, " she cried, with a sort of bitterness, "he regrets, eh? Herepents?" She laughed shortly. 

"I do not think so, " answered O'Neill. 

"No?" She considered him anew. "Tell me, "--she leaned forward in asudden eagerness--"why does he ask for me? If he is sober andcomposed for death, why--why does he ask for me?"

O'Neill made a gesture of helplessness. "Senora, " he said, "youshould know; you have the key to him. "

Gone was all the discipline to which her nature had deferred. Twentyyears of quiet and atonement were stripped from her like a flimsygarment. The fire was alight in all her vivid face again as shebrooded upon his answer. 

"Ah!" she cried of a sudden. "Everything is stale for a stale soul. Does he count on that? Senor, you speak well; you have made me apicture of him. He has heard that I have made religion the pillow ofmy conscience, eh? He folds his hands, eh?--thin, waxen hands, clasping in piety upon his counterpane, eh? He will wear the air of athin saint and bless me in a beautiful voice? Am I right? Am Iright?"

She forced her questions into his face, leaning forward in a quickviolence. 

"Goodness knows!" said O'Neill. "I shouldn't wonder. "

She nodded at him with tight lips. "I know, " she said. "I know. Ihave him by heart. " She rose from her seat and stood thinking. Suddenly she laughed, and strode to the middle of the room. Her gaithad the impatience and lightness of a dancer's. Quickly she wheeledand faced O'Neill, laughing again. 

"Now, by his salvation and mine, " she cried, "I will do what he asks. I will go to him. He thinks his heart is dry to me. I will show him!I will show him!" She opened her arms with a sweep. "Tell me, " shecried, "am I old? Am I the nun you looked for?" Her voice pealedscornfully. "Scarlet, " she said; "I will go to him in scarlet, as hepictured me when I posed for 'The Dancer!' His pulses shall welcomeme; his soul was in its grave when I was in my cradle. "

O'Neill had risen too. "Senora, " he protested, "you must consider--he is a dying man!"

He spoke to her back. Laughing again, she had turned from him to thegilt shrine and plucked a flower from it. She was fixing it in herhair when she faced him. 

"To-night, " she said, "we travel north. You are"--she paused, smiling--"you are my impresario, and Lola--Lola makes her curtsyagain!"

She caught her black skirt in her hand and curtsied to him with anextravagant grace. 

That was a strange journey to Paris that O'Neill made with theSenora. He had seen her humor change swiftly in response to hisappeal; what was surprising was that that new humor should maintainits nervous height. It was soon enough apparent that the Lola oftwenty years before lived yet, her flamboyant energy, her unstablecaprice, her full-blooded force conserved and undiminished. It waslike the bursting of one of those squalls that come up with abreathless loom of cloud, hang still and brooding, and then flashwithout warning into tempest. She faced him at the station with anelectric vivacity; her voice was harsh and imperious to her servantswho put her into the train and disposed of her luggage. It occurredto O'Neill that she traveled well equipped; there were boxes andbaskets in full ampleness. When at last the train tooted its littlehorn and started, she flung herself down in the seat facing him andbroke into shrill laughter. 

"It is the second advent of Lola, " she cried. "There should be aspecial train for me. "

Her dress was still of black, but it had suffered some change O'Neilldid not trouble to define. He saw that it no longer had the formalplainness of the gown she had worn earlier. It achieved an effect. But the main change was in the woman herself. It was impossible tothink of her and her years in the same breath. She had cast the longrestraint from her completely; all her sad days of quiet wereobliterated. She was once again the stormy, uneasy thing that haddominated her loose world, a vital and indomitable personalityuntempered by reason or any conscience. Even when she sat still andseemingly deep in thought, one felt and deferred to the magnetism andpower that were expressed in every feature of that dark and alertface. 

O'Neill deemed himself fortunate that she did not speak of Regnaulttill Paris lay but a few hours away. The whirlwind of her mood was athing that did not touch him, but it would have been mere torment tobattle on with that one topic. When she did speak of him it was withthe suddenness with which she approached everything. She had beensilent for nearly an hour, gazing through the window at the scurryinglandscape. 

"Then, " she said, as though resuming some conversation--"then he is, in truth, sick to death?"

"You mean--Regnault!" asked O'Neill, caught unawares. "Yes, Senora. He is sick to death. "

Her steady gaze from under the level brows embarrassed him like anassault. 

"And he is frightened?" she demanded. 

"I don't think he is in the least frightened, " replied O'Neill. 

She nodded to him, with the shape of a smile on her full lips. 

"I tell you, then, that he is frightened, " she said. "I know. Thereis nothing in all that man I do not know. He is frightened. "

She paused, still staring at him. 

"People like us are always frightened in the end, " she went on. Shelifted her forefinger like one who teaches a little child. "You see, with us, we guess. We guess at what comes after. We are sure--certainand very sure--that we, at least, deserve to suffer. And that is whyI have lived under my confessor for ten lifetimes. You gee!"

O'Neill nodded. It was not hard to understand that the splendidanimal in the Senora could never conceive the idea, of its utterextinction. Death--to Lola and her kind--is not the end, it is thebeginning of bondage. 

There was another interval of silence while she twisted her fingersin her lap. 

"Ah, " she said. "I know. He will be beautiful in his bed, dying likean abbot. He is frightened--yes. But he thinks himself safe from me. He imagines me sour, decorous, with a skinny neck. Because he thinksme all but a nun, he will be all but a priest. We shall see, SenorO'Neill. We shall see!"

Soon after that she left him to retire to the compartment in whichher maid traveled alone. 

"We arrive at eight, do we not?" she asked him. "Then I must make mytoilet. " She smiled down on him as she spoke, and gave him a littlesignificant nod. 

The train was already running into the station when she returned. O'Neill, nervous and apprehensive, gave her a quick glance. She wascovered in a long cloak of black silk that hid her figure entirely;the hood of it rose over her hair and made a frame to her face. Underthe hood he could distinguish the soft brightness of a red rose stuckever one ear. 

"Senora, " he said, "I take the liberty to remind you that we aregoing to the bedside of a dying man. "

She turned on him with slow scorn. "Yes, " she replied. "It is, asyou say, a liberty. "

The long robe rose and fell over her breast with her breathing; hereyes traveled over him from head to feet and back again deliberately. 

O'Neill took his temper into custody. "Still, " he urged, "if you haveit in mind to compass any surprising effect, remember--it may be hisdeath. "

She laughed slowly. "What is a death?" she answered. And then, witha hissing vehemence: "He sent for me, and I am here. Should I wear aveil, then--Lola?"

He put further remonstrances by, with a feeling of sickness in thethroat. Again realization surged upon him that he had no words withwhich to speak to people like this. They lived on another plane, andsaw by other lights. He was like a child wandering on a field ofbattle. 

He found a carriage, and got into it beside her, and sat in silencewhile they drove through the throng of the streets. He saw, throughthe window, the brisk tides of the pavement, the lights and thecafes; they seemed remote from him, inaccessible. Inside thecarriage, he could hear the steady, full breathing of the woman athis side. 

"You will at least allow me to go first, " he said, as they drew up atlast. He was prepared to carry this point if he had to lock her outof the house. But she made no demur. 

"As you will, " she murmured. 

He found her a place to wait, an alcove on the stairs. As he guidedher to it, a touch on the arm showed him she was trembling. 

"I will be a very little while, " he promised, and ran up the stairs. 

It was Buscarlet who opened the door to him, with Truelove standingbehind his shoulder. 

"Welcome, welcome!" babbled Buscarlet. "Oh, but we have been eagerfor you! Tell me, will she--will she come?"

"She is waiting on the stairs, in the alcove, " answered O'Neill. 

Buscarlet's mild eyes opened in amaze. "You have brought her withyou?" he cried. 

O'Neill nodded. 

"Thank God!" ejaculated Truelove. 

"How is he?" asked O'Neill. "Still--er--living, eh?"

It was Truelove that replied. "Still keeping on, sir, " he answered. "But changed, as you might say. Softened would be the word, sir. "

"What d'ye mean?" demanded O'Neill. 

"Well, sir, " said the ex-corporal of dragoons, with a touch ofhesitation, "it isn't for me to judge, but I should say he's--he'sgot religion. Or a taste of it, anyway. "

O'Neill stared at the pair of them in open dismay. "Let me see him, "he said shortly, and they followed him through the little anteroom tothe great studio. 

Behind the screen, the narrow bed was white, and on it Regnault layin stillness, looking up. 

He started slightly as O'Neill appeared at the foot of his bed, andthe faint flush rose in his face. "Hush!" he said, with a forefingeruplifted, and poised for a few seconds on the brink of a spasm. 

"Ah!" he said when he was safe. "That was a near thing, O'Neill. I amglad to see you back, my friend. "

He was tranquil; even that undertone of mockery, so familiar in hisvoice, was gone. A rosary sprawled on his breast; O'Neill recognizedit for a splendid piece of Renaissance work that had lain about theroom for months. 

"I have found my happiness in meditation, " Regnault was saying, in astill, silken voice. "But tell me, O'Neill--will she come?"

"Yes, " said O'Neill, wearily, "she will come. " Regnault made a gentlegesture of thanks and closed his eyes. His long fingers slid on theivory beads and his lips moved. O'Neill gazed down on him with aweakness of bewilderment; his landmarks were shifting. 

He was standing thus, looking in mere absence of mind, when afootfall beyond the screen reached his ear. 

"Oh Lord!" he cried. 

It was she. As his eyes fell upon her she was letting fall her longcloak. It lay on the floor about her feet, and she towered over it, in superb scarlet. Against her background of shadow her neck and armsand the abundance of her breast shone like silver. Ere he could go toher she waved him away with a sweep of a naked arm. A hand was on herhip, and she moved towards the bed with the sliding gait of theSpanish dancer. 

It was an affair of an instant. Buscarlet and Truelove hastened uponhis exclamation, and Buscarlet, stumbling, brushed against thescreen. He caught at it to save it from falling, and the bed was bareto the room. Regnault and his wife looked into each other's face. She, undisturbed by the suddenness of it all, held yet her posture ofthe stage, glowing in her silk with something dangerous and ominousabout her, something blatant and yet potent, like a knife in astocking. It was as though she wrought in violence for the admirationof the man on the bed. He, on his elbow, turned to her a thin facewith lips parted and trembling; for an intolerable instant they hung, mute and motionless. Then, slowly, she turned with one foot sliding, and the light of the lamp was full on her face. 

It seemed to break the tense spell; Regnault's face was writhing; ofa sudden he burst into shrill, hideous laughter, and his right handflung out and pointed at her. None moved; none could. His laugh rangand broke, and rang again, outrageous and uncontrollable, merry andhearty and hateful. The woman, at the first peal of it, started andstood as though stricken to stone; they could see her shrivel underthe blast of it, shrivel and shrink and age. 

Then, as though it had been overdue and long awaited, the laughchecked and choked. It freed them from the thrall that held them. Regnault's head fell back. 

"The amyl!" cried O'Neill, and they were all about him. "The amyl--where is it?"

Regnault's face was a mask of paralyzed pain; but the silver patch-box that held the capsules was not on the table. It took a minute tofind it on the floor. O'Neill smashed a couple, and thrust his handinto the waxen face--and waited. Buscarlet was breathing like a manin a nightmare. Truelove stood to attention. But Regnault did notreturn to the shape of life. 

O'Neill let his hand drop, and turned to Truelove. "He's got it, " hesaid; "But fetch a doctor. "

His eyes fell on the dancer in her shimmering scarlet, where sheknelt at the bedside, with her head bowed to the counterpane and herhands clasped over it. 

He sighed. He did not understand. 

X

THE POOR IN HEART

It was his habit of an evening to play the flute; and he was playingit faithfully, with the score propped up against a pile of books onhis table, when the noises from the street reached him, andinterrupted his music. With the silver-dotted flute in his hand hemoved to the window and put aside the curtains to look out. 

The flute is the instrument of mild men; and Robert Lucas hadmildness for a chief quality. At the age of thirty-five, in the highnoon of his manhood, he showed to the world a friendly, unenterprising face, neatly bearded, and generally a little vacant. The accident that gave him a Russian mother was his mainqualification for the post he now held--that of representative of afirm of leather manufacturers in the Russian town of Tambov. He spokeRussian, he knew leather, and he could ignore the smells of atanyard; these facts entitled him to a livelihood. 

To right and left, as he looked forth, the cobbled street was dark;but opposite, in the silversmith's shop, there were lights, and, below, a small crowd had gathered. He watched wonderingly. He knewthe silversmith well enough to nod as he passed his door--a young, laborious man with a rapt, uncertain face and a tumbled mane of blackhair. There were also a little, grave wife and a fat, grave baby; andthese, when they were visible, received separate and distinctivenods, and always returned them. The hide-sellers and tanners were, for the most part, crude and sportive persons with whom he could havenothing in common; they lived, apparently, on drink and uproar; andhe had come to regard the silversmith and his family as vaguefriends. He pressed his face closer to the glass of the doublecasement to see more certainly. 

The little shop seemed to be full of lights and people, and outsideits door there was a press of folk. The murmur of voices was audible, though he could distinguish nothing that was said. But now and againthere was laughter. It was the laughter that held him gazing andapprehensive; it had a harsher note than mirth. It seemed to him, too, that some of the men in the doorway were in uniform; he couldsee them only in outline, mere black silhouettes against the interiorlights; but there was about them the ominous cut of the official, that Russian bird of ill-omen. And then, while yet he doubted, theresounded the very keynote of disaster. From somewhere within thesilversmith's shop a woman screamed, sudden and startling. 

"Now, now!" said Robert Lucas, at his window, grasping his flutenervously. And, as though in answer to his remonstrance, there wasagain that guttural, animal laughter. He frowned. 

"I must see into this, " he told himself very seriously. 

He turned from the window. His pleasant room, with the bright lamp onthe table and the music leaning beside it, seemed to advise him toproceed with caution. He and his life were not devised for situationsin which women screamed on that tense note of anguish and terror; hehad never done a violent thing in all his days. There was no clearpurpose in his mind as he pulled open his door to go out--merely anill-ease that forced him to go nearer to the cause of those screams. He had descended the stairs and was fumbling at the latch of thestreet-door before he realized that he was still holding the flute. 

"Oh, bother!" he exclaimed, in extreme exasperation when theinstrument proved too long for his pocket, and went out carrying itlike some remarkable and ornate baton. 

The small crowd before the silversmith's shop numbered, perhaps, ahundred people, and even before his eyes were acclimatized to thedarkness he smelt sheepskin coats and tan-bark. He touched one bigman on the arm and asked a question. The lights in the shop lit upthe fellow's hairy face and loose grin as he turned to answer. 

"Eh?" said the man. "Why, it's a Jew that the police are clearingout. Did you hear the Jewess squeal?"

"Yes, I heard, " said Lucas, and moved away. 

He was cut off from the door of the shop by the backs of the crowd, and passed along the street to get round them. Inside the lightedhouse the baby had begun to cry, but there was no more screaming. Hehad a sense that unless he hurried he might be too late for what wasin preparation. The crowd seemed to be waiting for some culminatingscene, with more than screams in it. A touch of nervous excitementcame to fortify him, and he thrust in between two huge slaughterers, whose clothes reeked of the killing sheds. 

"Make way!" he said breathlessly, as they turned on him. 

One of them swore and would have shoved him back, and others lookedround at the sound of strife. Lucas put up an uncertain hand to guardthe blow. It, was the hand that held the flute, whose silver keysflashed in the lights from the shop. 

"Ha!" grunted the slaughterer, arrested by that sight. He looked atLucas doubtfully, his neat clothes, his general aspect of a superior. "Who are you?" he demanded. 

"Make way!" repeated Lucas. 

It seemed to confirm the slaughterer in his suspicion that this was apersonage to be deferred to. 

"Hi, there!" he bellowed helpfully. "Give room for his Excellency. Let his Excellency come through! Don't you see what he's got in hishand? Make way, will you?"

He bent his huge, unclean shoulder to the business of clearing apath, and drove through like a snow-plough. Lucas followed along thelane that he made, and came to the pavement close by the shop. 

It was fortunate that events marched sharply from that point, andforced him to act without thinking. He had some vague notion offinding the officer in charge of the police and speaking to him. Butbefore he could move to do so there was a fresh activity of thepeople within the bright windows; he saw something that had the lookof a struggle. Voices babbled, and the crowd pressed closer; andsuddenly, from the open doorway, two figures reeled forth, clutchingand thrusting. One was in uniform, the other was a woman. For acouple of seconds they wrenched and fought, staged before the crowdon the lighted doorstep; and then the woman broke away and ranblindly towards the spot where Lucas stood. She had, he saw suddenly, a child in her arms that cried unceasingly. 

The uniformed man who had tried to hold her came plunging after her;his face was creased in clownish and cruel smiles. Lucas saw thething stupidly; his mind prompted him to nothing; he stood where hewas, empty of resource. He was directly in the flying woman's path, and she rushed at him as to a refuge. He was the sole thing in thatnarrow arena of dread which she did not recognize as a figure ofoppression; and she floundered to her knees at his-feet and heldforth the terrified child to him in an agony of appeal. Her tormentedand fearful face was upturned to him; he knew her for the Jewess, thewife of the silversmith. 

"Father!" she breathed, in the pitiful idiom of that land of orphans. 

"Ye-es, " said Robert Lucas vaguely, and put a hand on her head. 

Never before, in all the orderly level of his life, had a human beingchosen him for champion and savior. He was aware of something withinhim that surged, some spate of force and potency in his blood; hestood upright with a start to confront the policeman who was on thewoman's heels. The man was grinning still, fatuously and consciously, like a buffoon who knows he will be applauded; Lucas fronted hissmiling security with a still fury that wiped the mirth from his faceand left him gaping. 

"Get back!" said Lucas. He spoke in a low tone, and the crowd jostlednearer to hear. 

The policeman stared at him, amazed and uncomprehending. 

"Sir, " he stammered; "Excellency--this Jewess she----"

He stopped. Lucas was pointing at him with the flute across the bowedhead of the woman, who crouched over her child at his feet. 

"You shall report the matter to the Governor, " said Lucas, in thesame tone of icy anger. "And I will report it to the Minister. "

He touched the woman. "Get up, " he said. "Come with me. "

He had to repeat it before she understood; she was numb with terror. She rose with difficulty to her feet, clasping the child, whose wailwas now weak with exhaustion. The peering crowd made a ring of brutefaces about them, full of menace and mystery, but the new power inhim moved them to right and left at his gesture, and they gave himpassage, with the woman behind him, across the road. The stupefiedpoliceman watched them go, and then ran off to place the matter inthe hands of his superior. 

Lucas was at his door when the officer whom the policeman had fetchedtouched him on the elbow. He was a young man; if he had been olderLucas's difficulties might have been increased. He peered in thedarkness, and was visible as a narrow, black-moustached face, withheavy eyebrows and a brutal mouth. The one thing that deterred himfrom brisk action was the fact that Lucas was a foreigner, whoserights and liabilities were therefore uncertain. 

"This woman, " he said, "is arrested. "

Lucas was unlocking the door. He turned with his hand on the key, andthe woman touched his arm. Perhaps that touch aided him to use bigwords. As a resident in Tambov he knew the officer by sight, and hadalways been a little daunted by his manner of power. In Russia onecomes easily to fear the police. But now he was free of fear. 

"You be careful, " he said. "I saw what was being done. "

With his left hand he pushed the door, and it swung open. He motionedthe woman to enter, and nodded as he saw her cross the threshold. 

The officer vented a click of impatience. 

"I tell you----" he began, and moved forward a step. Lucas extendedan arm and the hand that held the flute across his chest. 

"Back!" he said. "You mustn't enter this house--you know that! Youcan go to the Governor, if you like, and I will go over his head. Butyou shall not touch that woman. "

"She is arrested, " said the officer obstinately, still studying hisantagonist. "If you wish to aid her, you must go to the Bureau; butyou cannot take her away like this. "

"Eh?" Lucas swung round on him; the time was fertile in inspirations. "Can't I?!" he demanded threateningly. "But I have taken her, man. Ifyou seize her now you must arrest me, too, and then--we shall see!"

"I must do my duty, " persisted the other. 

"Do it, then, " said Lucas, standing square across the door. "Do it, and see if you can explain afterwards how you did it. I am not awoman who can be insulted with safety; my arrest will have to beexplained to St. Petersburg, and you will have to pay for it. I sawhow she was being handled, and how your duty was being done. I tellyou, you're in danger. Be careful!"

"So?" replied the officer slowly. He turned to the folk who were theabsorbed audience of this conference. "Move away, there, " hecommanded harshly. "This is none of your business. Off with you!"

They shifted back reluctantly, and he waited till he could speakunheard by them. Then he turned to Lucas again with a touch of theconfidential in his manner. 

"What do you want with her?" he asked. 

"Want with her?" repeated Lucas, not immediately comprehending. Then, as the man's meaning reached him he trembled. "I don't want her, " hecried. "I don't want her. You want her, not I; and you shan't haveher. Do you understand? You shan't have her!"

"Shan't I?" retorted the officer, but there was indecision in hisvoice. 

"No!" said Lucas. 

There was a pause. Neither of them was sure of himself. The officerfound himself in face of a situation which he could not gauge; andit would never do for a provincial police official to attract noticein remote St. Petersburg. For all he knew, this flimsy little man, who had snatched his Jewess from him, might be able to set in motionthose mills which grind erring servants of the State into disgraceand ruin. He certainly had a large and authoritative way with him. 

"Will you come to the Bureau, then, and speak with the chief?" hesuggested. "You see, your action causes a difficulty. "

"No, I won't, " said Lucas flatly. 

He also was in doubt. It seemed to him that he stood in aconsiderable peril, and he was aware that his mood of high temper wasfailing him. It needed an effort to maintain an assured anduncompromising front. Behind him, on the unlighted stairs, the womanbreathed heavily. He summoned what he had of stubbornness to upholdhim. The affair so far had gone valiantly; he meant that it shouldcontinue on the same plane. 

He saw the officer hesitate frowningly, and quaked. In a moment theman might make up his mind and seize him; there was an urgentnecessity for some action that should quell him. Like all weak men, he saw a resource in violence, and as the officer opened his lips tospeak again he interrupted. 

"No more!" he shouted. "You have heard what I had to say; that isenough. Now go!"

He pointed frantically with his flute, and the officer, at the suddenlifting of his arm, made a surprised movement, which Lucasmisunderstood. 

With a cry that was half terror and half ecstasy he smote, and theflute beat the officer's cap down over his eyes. 

"Yei Bohu!" ejaculated the officer, falling back, Lucas did not wait for him to thrust the cap away and recoverhimself. He had done his utmost, and the next step must rest withProvidence. It was but two paces to the doorway. The officer was notquick enough to see his panic-stricken retirement. He recovered hissight only to see the slam of the door, which seemed to close in hisface with a contemptuous and defiant emphasis. It was like a finalfist shaken at him to drive home a warning. He shook his headdespondently. 

On the other side of the door Lucas, fighting with his loud breath, heard his slow footsteps on the cobbles as he departed. He waited, hardly daring to relax his mind to hope, till he heard the party ofthem drawing off. He was weak with unaccustomed emotions. 

What struck him as marvelous was that the woman, whose face he hadlast seen as a writhen mask of fear, should appear in the light ofhis room with her calm restored, with nothing but some disorder ofher hair and dress to betoken her troubles. Even the child in herarms, worn out with weeping perhaps, had fallen asleep. He stared atthe pair of them vacantly. His lamp, his music, all the apparatus ofhis gentle and decorous existence were as he had left them; theirfamiliar and prosaic quality made his adventure appear by contrastmonstrous. 

The Jewess was watching him. In her dark, serious way she had acertain striking beauty. Her grave eyes waited for him to look ather. 

"What is it?" he said at last. 

"If I might put the child down, " she suggested timidly. 

Lucas pointed to the double-doors of his bedroom. "My bed is inthere, " he answered. She lowered her head, as though in obedience toa command he had given, and carried the child out. Lucas watched hergo, and then crossed the room to a cupboard which contained, amongother things, a bottle of brandy. 

While he was drinking she returned, pausing in the door to look backat the child. He noticed that she left the door partly open to hearit if it should wake, and somehow this struck him as particularlymoving. 

She came across the room to him, with her steadfast eyes on his face, and, without speaking, fell on her knees before him and put the edgeof his coat to her lips. 

Lucas stood while she did it; he hardly dared to move and interruptthat reverent and symbolic act of gratitude. But once again, as whenon the pavement she had held the child to him in frantic appeal, thesimple soul within him flamed into splendor, and he was in touch withgreat passions and mighty emotions. It is the mood of martyrs andheroes. He looked down to her dark eyes, bright with swimming tears, and helped her to her feet. 

"You shall be safe here, " he told her. "Nobody shall touch you here. "

She believed it utterly; he was a champion sent straight from God;she had seen him conquering and irresistible. To fear now would be ablasphemy. 

"I am quite safe, " she agreed. "I am not afraid. To-morrow some of mypeople will come for me. "

He nodded. "There is some food in the cupboard there, " he told her. "Milk, too, if the child wants it. And nobody can come up the stairswithout meeting me; and if they try, God help them!"

She half smiled at the idea. "They would never dare, " she agreedconfidently. 

He would have been glad of his overcoat, but that was in his bedroom, and he dreaded the indelicacy of going there while she was present. So in the event he bade her a brief good-night, and found himself onthe dark and chilly stairs without so much as a pillow or a blanketto make sleep possible. For lack of anything else in the shape of aweapon, he had brought his silver-keyed flute with him; if he wereinvaded in the small hours it might serve him again; it seemed tohave a virtue for quelling police officials. 

About three o'clock in the morning he awoke from an uneasy doze, chilled to the marrow, and was prompted to try if the flute wouldstill make music. It would not. It is too much to ask of anyinstrument that has been used as an instrument of war. It had saved aJewess and her child, magnified its owner into a man of action, andwas thenceforth silent for ever. 

"I must have hit that officer pretty hard, " was the reflection ofRobert Lucas. 

The episode closed shortly before noon next day, when two elderly menof affairs came to fetch his guests away. They entered the room whilehe was entertaining the baby with a whistled selection from hisrepertoire of flute music, and he broke off short as they regardedhim from the doorway. The Jewess looked up alertly as they entered. 

They bowed to Lucas with a manner of servility in which there was anironic suggestion, while their eyes examined him shrewdly. They werebearded, aquiline persons, soft-spoken and withal formidable. He hada notion that they found him amusing, but suppressed their amusement. 

"Then it is you we have to thank, " said the elder of them, whenformal greetings had been exchanged, "for the safety of this girl andher child. "

"I don't want any thanks, " protested Lucas. 

He could not tell them how the thanks he had already receivedtranscended any words they could speak. 

"It was a villainous thing, " he went on. "I'm glad I could help. Er--is the silversmith all, right?"

"Money was paid, " answered the grey-haired Jew; "he is safe, therefore. But he spent the night in chains, while his wife was herewith you. "

He spoke with a pregnant gravity. The Jewess started up and addressedhim in a tongue Lucas could not understand. He saw that she pointedto him and to the bedroom and to the stairs, and that she spoke withheat. The old Jew heard her intently. 

"So!" he said, in his deep voice. "Then we have more to thank you forthan we thought. You gave up your rooms, it seems?"

"It is nothing, " said Lucas. "You see, a lady--well, I could hardly--"

"Yes, I see, " agreed the old Jew. "I have to do with a noble spirit. And you do not want any thanks? So? But we Jews, we have more thingsto give than thanks, and better things. "

"I don't want anything, " Lucas answered him. "I'm glad everything'sall right. "

"You are very good, " said the old man, "very good and generous. Butsome day, perhaps, you will have a need--and then you will find thatour people do not forget. "

The Jewess had nothing to take with her but her child. She bowed herhead and murmured something as she passed out, and the baby laughedat him. 

"Our people do not forget, " repeated the old Jew, as he bowed himselfforth. 

"Well, " said Lucas, half aloud, when he was once more alone in hisroom, "that's finished, anyhow. "

It was the knell of his greater self, of the man he had contrived tobe for a few hours. He sat in his chair, dimly realizing it, withvague and wordless regrets. Then, upon the table, he saw the flute, and rose to put it in the cupboard. It would never be useful again, but he did not want to throw it away. 

The old dramas, which somehow came so close to reality with so littleart--or because of so little art--had a way of straddling time likelife itself. "Twenty years elapse between Acts II and III, " theplaybills said unblushingly, and the fact is that what most men sowat twenty they reap at forty; the twenty years do elapse between theacts. The curtain that goes down on Robert Lucas in his room atTambov rises on Robert H. Lucas in New York, with the passage of timemarked on him as clearly as on a clock. With grey in his beard andpatches on his boots, and quarters in a boarding-house in Long IslandCity, he is still concerned with leather, but no longer prosperous. His work involves much calling on dealers and manufacturers, andtheir manner of receiving him has done nothing to harden his mannerof diffidence and incompetence. His linen strives to beinconspicuous; his clothes do not inspire respect; the total effectof him is that of a man who has been at great pains to plant himselfin a wrong environment. Tambov now is no more than a memory; it isless than an experience, for it has left the man unchanged. It is athing he has seen--not a thing he has lived. 

The accident that gave his name and the address of his boarding-housea place in the papers has no part in his story; he was an unimportantwitness in the trial of a man whom he had seen in the street cuttingblood-spots out of his clothing. He had bought a paper whichmentioned him to read on the ferry as he returned home, and had beenmildly thrilled to find that an artist had sketched him andimmortalized him in his columns. And next morning came the letter. 

"Guelder and Zorn" was the name engraved across the head of it, in aslender Italian script; it conveyed nothing to him. The body of thecommunication was typewritten, and stated that if Mr. Robert H. Lucaswould present himself at the above address, the firm would be glad toserve him. Nothing more. 

"Mean to say you haven't heard of Guelder and Zorn?" demanded theyoung man whose place at breakfast in the boarding-house was oppositeto him, when he asked a question. "Say--d'you know what money is?Hard, round flat stuff--money? You do know that, eh? Well, Guelderand Zorn is the same thing. "

Somebody laughed. Lucas looked round rather helplessly. 

"They say, " he explained, referring to the letter, "that they'll beglad to serve me. "

"Then you might lend me a couple of million, " suggested the young manopposite, with entire disbelief. "Them Jews would never miss it. "

Lucas had the sense to drop the matter there. He put the letter inhis pocket and went on with his breakfast, and listened withincredulous interest to the talk that went on about the wealth, thegreatness, the magnificence and power of the financial house whichprofessed itself anxious to be of use to him. He was sorry to have toleave the table before it came to an end. 

It is characteristic of him that the letter aroused no wild hopes, nor even an acute curiosity. He came, in the course of the morning, to the offices of Messrs. Guelder and Zorn in much the same frame ofmind he brought to his business efforts. They were near, but not in, Wall Street--a fact of some symbolic quality which he, of course, could not appreciate. He stood on the edge of the side-walk for somemoments, looking up at the solid, responsible block of building whichanchored their fortunes to earth, till some one jostled him into thegutter. Then he recollected himself and prepared to enter the money-mill. 

A hall porter like a comic German heard his inquiry, scrutinized himwith a withering glare, and jerked a thumb towards a door. He foundhimself in such an office as may have seen the first Rothschild makehis first profits--a room austere as a chapel, rigidly confined tothe needs of business. A screen, pierced by pigeon-holes, cut it inhalf. Experience has proved that no sum of money is too large topass through a pigeon-hole. 

"Veil?"

A whiskered, spectacled face, framed in the central pigeon-hole, witheyes magnified by the spectacles, regarded him sharply. 

"Oh!" He recalled himself to his concerns with a jerk, and fumbled inhis pockets. "I had a letter, " he explained. 

"Vere is de letter?"

He found it, after an exciting search, and passed it over. Thewhiskered face developed a hand to receive it. 

"I don't know what it's about, " explained Lucas. 

"Perhaps your people have made a mistake in the name, or something. "

"Our beoble, " said the face in the pigeon-hole, with malignantemphasis, "do nod make mistagues!"

There was an interval while the letter was read, and Lucas stood andfidgeted, with a sense that he was intrusive and petty and undesired. "Yes, " said the owner of the spectacles, at length. "You vait. I villenguire. "

He left his pigeon-hole unshuttered, and to Lucas, while he waited, it seemed that several men came to it and glanced at himforbiddingly. None spoke; they just looked as though in righteousindignation at his presence, with seventy-five cents in his pocket, in that high temple of finance. Then the whiskered and spectacledface fitted itself again into the aperture. 

"So you are Mr. Robert H. Lugas, are you?" it inquired. "Den vere vasyou in de year 1886?"

"Where was I?" repeated Lucas vaguely. "Let me see! 1886--yes! I wasin Russia then--in Tambov. "

"Yes. " The other's regard was keen. "An' now tell me aboud de man datlived obbosite to you in Tambov?"

"Do you mean the silversmith?" said Lucas. The other nodded. "Oh, him! He was a Jew. They expelled him. "

"And his vife?"

"His wife! They expelled her too, " he answered. "I never heard of heragain. "

"Vot vas de last you heard of her?"

"Oh, that!"

Lucas was staring at him vacantly. It did not occur to him that, bynot answering promptly, he might give ground for doubt and suspicion. The question had re-illuminated in his mind--perhaps for the firsttime since the event which it touched--that night of twenty yearsbefore. He flavored again the heady and effervescent vintage ofstrong action, of crowded happenings and poignant emotions. 

"Veil?" demanded the other. 

"There was a police officer, " began Lucas obediently; "his name wasSemianoff;" and in bald, halting words he told the story. He told itabsently, languidly, for no words within his reach could convey thething as it dwelt in his memory, the warmth and color of it, itsuplifting and transfiguring quality. 

The man behind the pigeon-hole heard him intently. 

"Yes, " he said again, as Lucas finished. "You are de man. Ve do notreguire further broof, Mr. Lugas. "

He produced a slip of paper and a pen which he laid on the ledgebefore his pigeon-hole. 

"I am instrugted to say dat if you vill fill in and sign dis cheque, ve vill cash it. "

"Eh?" Lucas was slow to understand. 

"Ve vill cash it, " repeated the other. "You fill it in--and sign it--and I vill cash it now. "

"But"--Lucas took the pen from him in mere obedience to his gesture--"but--what for?"

"My instrugtions are to cash it--no more!"

Lucas stared at the tight-lipped, elderly face, like the face of awise and distrustful gnome, and held the pen uncertainly above thecheque form. 

"How much am I to write?" he asked. 

"I haf no instrugtions about de amount, " was the reply. 

"But, " cried Lucas, "I might write fifty thousand dollars!"

"My instrugtions are to cash de cheque ven you haf written it. "

"Oh!" said Lucas. 

He stared incredulously at the face for some moments and then wrote acheque for the sum he had named--fifty thousand dollars. He was aboutto add his signature when something occurred to him. 

"Is it because I went across the road to that little woman inTambov?" he asked suddenly. 

The whiskered face answered composedly: "No. It is because you wentout of your rooms and slept on de stairs. "

"Because"--he seemed puzzled--"but that is a thing--why, anygentleman would do it. "

"Dose are my instrugtions, " said the man behind the pigeon-hole. 

"I see. "

Lucas stood upright, the uncompleted cheque in his fingers. Allsurprise and excitement had vanished from his regard; he seemedtaller and stronger than he had been a minute before. He had yet manycalls to make, and, in the nature of things, many rebuffs to receive, before he went home to supper; and the money in his pocket totaledseventy-five cents. He needed new boots, new clothes, leisure, consideration, and a sight of his native land; in short, he neededfifty thousand dollars. 

"You will cash this because I didn't fail to respect a helplesswoman?" he asked, in level tones. 

The whiskered cashier replied: "Yes. Because you gave up your roomand kept watch on de stairs. "

Lucas laughed gently. "That is not the way to deal with a gentleman, "he said. "I will make your firm a present of fifty thousand dollars. "

He showed the cheque he had written, with the figures clear andlarge. And then, with leisurely motions, he tore it across and againacross. 

"Much obliged, " said Robert H. Lucas, and made for the door. 

XI

THE MAN WHO KNEW

Bearded, bowed, with hard blue eyes that questioned always, so weknew David Uys as children; an old, remotely quiet man, who was to bepassed on the other side of the street and in silence. I havewondered sometimes if the old man ever noticed the hush that, ranbefore him and the clamor that grew up behind, the games that heldbreath, while he went by, and the children that judged him with wideeyes. He alone, of all the people in the little dorp, made his ownworld and possessed it in solitude; about him, the folk held allinterest in community and measured life by a trivial common standard. At his doorstep, though, lay the frontier of little things; he wassomething beyond us all, and therefore greater or less than we. Themere pictorial value of his tall figure, the dignity of his long, forked beard, and the expectancy of his patient eyes, must havesettled it that he was greater. I was a child when he died, andremember only what I saw, but the rest was talk, and so, perhaps, grew the more upon me. 

One day he died. For years he had walked forth in the morning andback to his house at noon, a purple spot on the raw color of thetown. He had always been still and somewhat ominous, and conveyed toall who saw him a sense of looking for something. But on this day hewent back briskly, walking well and striding long, with the gait ofone that has good news, and he smiled at those he passed and noddedto them, unheeding or not seeing their strong surprise nor the alarmhe wrought to the children. He went straight to his little house, that overlooks a crowded garden and a pool of the dorp spruit, entered, and was seen no more alive. His servant, a sullen Kafir, found him in his bed when supper-time came, called him, looked, madesure, and ran off to spread the news that David Uys was dead. He waslying, I have learned, as one would lie who wished to die formally, with a smile on his face and his arms duly crossed. This is copiouslyconfirmed by many women who crowded, after the manner of Boers, tosee the corpse; and of all connected with him, I think, his end andthe studied manner of it, implying an ultimate deference to theconventions, have most to do with the awe in which his memory ispreserved. 

Now, a death so well conceived, so aptly preluded, must, in thenature of things, crown and complete a life of singular and strongquality. A murder without a good motive is mere folly; properlyactuated, it is tragedy, and therefore of worth. So with a death oneseldom dies well, in the technical sense, without having lived well, in the artistic sense; and a man who will furnish forth a good death-bed scene seldom goes naked of an excellent tradition. I have been atsome pains to discover the story of David Uys; and though some or thegreater part of it may throw no further back than to the vrouws ofthe dorp, it seems to me that they have done their part at least aswell as David Uys did his, and this is the tale I gleaned. 

When David was a young man the Boers were not yet scattered abroadall over the veldt, and the farms lay in to the dorps, and men sawone another every day. There was still trouble with the Kafirs attimes, little risings and occasional murders, with the sacking andburning of homesteads, and it was well to have the men within acouple of days' ride of the field-cornet, for purposes of defense andretaliation. But when David married all this weighed little with him. 

"What need of neighbors?" he said to his young wife. "We have moreneed of land--good land and much of it. We will trek. "

"It shall be as you will, David, " answered Christina. "I have no wishbut yours, and neighbors are nothing to me. "

There was a pair of them, you see--both Boers of the best, caringmore for a good fire of their own than to see the smoke fromanother's chimney soiling the sky. Within a week of their agreementthe wagons were creaking towards the rising sun, and the whips weresaluting the morning. David and Christina fronted a new worldtogether, and sought virgin soil. For a full month they journeyedout, and out-spanned at last, on a mellow evening, on their home. 

"Could you live here, do you think, Christina?" asked David, smiling, and she smiled back at him and made no other answer. 

There was no need for one, indeed, for no Boer could pass such aplace. It was a rise, a little rand, flowing out from a tall kopje, grass and bush to its crown, and at its skirts ran a wide spruit ofclear water. The veldt waved like a sea--not nakedly and forlorn, butdotted with grey mimosa and big green dropsical aloes, that here andthere showed a scarlet plume like a flame. The country was thigh-deepin grass and spoke of game; as they looked, a springbok got up andfled. So here they stayed. 

David and his Kafirs built the house, such a house as you see onlywhen the man who is to make his home in it puts his hand to thebuilding. David knew but one architecture, that of the great hillsand the sky, and when all was done, the house and its backgroundclove together like a picture in a fit frame, the one enhancing theother, the two being one in perfection. It was thatched, with deepeaves, and these made a cool stoep and cast shadows on the windows;while the door was red, and took the eye at once, as do the plumes ofthe aloes. It was not well devised--to say so would be to lend Davida credit not due to him; but it occurred excellently. 

The next thing that occurred was a child, a son, and this set thepinnacle on their happiness. His arrival was the one great event inmany years, for the multiplication of David's flocks and herds was sowell graduated, the growth of his prosperity so steady and of so evena process, that it tended rather to content than to joy. It was likehaving money rather than like getting it. In the same barefoot quiettheir youth left them, and the constant passing of days marked them, tenderly at first and then more deeply. Their boy, Frikkie, was aman, and thinking of marrying, when the consciousness of the leak intheir lives, stood up before them. 

They were sitting of an evening on the stoep, watching the sun godown and pull his ribbons after him, when Christina spoke. 

"David, " she said, "yesterday was twenty-five years since ourmarriage. We--we are growing old, David. "

She spoke with a falter, believing what she said. For though theblood is running strong and warm, and the eye is as clear as theheart is loyal, twenty-five years is a weary while to count back toone's youth. 

David turned and looked at her. He saw for a moment with her eyes--saw that the tenseness of her girlhood had vanished, and he wasastonished. But he knew he was strong and hale, well set-up and agood man to be friends with, and as he gripped his knees, he felt thetough muscle under his fingers, and it restored him. 

"Christina, " he said, seeing she was troubled, "it is the same withboth of us. You are not afraid to grow old with me, little cousin?"

She came closer to him but said nothing. It was soon after that, anda wonderful thing in its way, such as David had never heard ofbefore, that there came to them another boy, a wee rascal thatshattered all the cobwebs of twenty-five years, and gave Christinasomething better to think of than the footsteps of time. 

Frikkie had been glorious enough in his time, and was glorious enoughstill, for the matter of that; but this was a creature withexceptional points, which neither David nor Christina--nor, to do himjustice, Frikkie--could possibly overlook. Frikkie had a voice like abell, and whiskers like the father of a family, and stood six foottwo in his naked feet, and lacked no excellence that a sturdybachelor should possess. But the other, who was born to the name ofPaul, lamented his arrival with a vociferous note of disappointmentin the world that was indescribably endearing; had a head clothed indown like the intimate garments of an ostrich chick, and was smallenough for David to put in his pocket. He brought a new horizon withhim and imposed it on his parents; he was, in brief, a thing to makea deacon of a Jew peddler. 

Thereafter, life for David and Christina was no longer a singlephenomenon, but a series of developments. It was like sailing inagreeably rough water. No pensive mood could survive the sight ofmighty Frikkie gambolling like a young bull in the company of Paul;nor could quiet hours impart a melancholy while the welkin rang withthe voice of the kleintje bullying the adoring Kafirs. Where beforelife had glided, now it steeplechased, taking its days bull-headed, and Paul grew to the age of four as a bamboo grows, in leaps. 

Then Frikkie, the huge, the hairy, the heavy-footed, the man whoprided himself on his ability to make circumstances, discovered, in arevealing flash, that he was, after all, a poor creature, and thatthe brightest being on earth was Katje Voss, whose people had settledabout thirty miles off--next door, as it were. Katje held views notentirely dissimilar, but she consented to marry him, and the bigyouth walked on air. Katje was a dumpy Boer girl, with a face allcream and roses, and a figure that gave promise of much fathereafter. Christina had imagined other things, but the ideal is arickety structure, and she yielded; while David had never consideredsuch an emergency, and consented heartily. Behind Frikkie's back hetalked of grandchildren, and was exceedingly happy. 

Then his dream-fabric tumbled about his ears. 

Frikkie had ridden off to worship his beloved, and David andChristina, as was their wont, sat on the stoep. They' watched thefigure of their son out of sight, and talked a while, and then lapsedinto the silence of perfect companionship. The veldt was all aboutthem, as silent and friendly as they, and the distance was mellowwith a haze of heat. From the kraals came at intervals the voice oflittle Paul in fluent Kafir; David smiled over his pipe and nodded tohis wife once when the boy's voice was raised in a shout. Christinawas sewing; her thoughts were on Katje, and were still vaguelyhostile. 

Of a sudden she heard David's pipe clatter on the ground, and lookedsharply round at him. He was staring intently into the void sky; hisbrows were knitted and his face was drawn; even as she turned he gavea hoarse cry. 

She rose quickly, but he rose too, and spoke to her in an unfamiliarvoice. 

"Go in, " he said. "Have all ready, for our son has met with a mishap. He has fallen from his horse. "

She gasped, and stared at him, but could not speak. 

"Go and do it, " he said again, looking at her with hard eyes; andsuddenly she saw, as by an inward light, that here was not madness, but truth. It spurred her. 

"I will do it, " she said swiftly. "But you will go and bring him in?"

"At once, " he replied, and was away to the shed for the cart. TheKafirs came running to inspan the horses, and shrank from him as theyworked. He was white through his tan, and he breathed loud. LittlePaul saw him, and sat down on the ground and cried quietly. 

Before David went his wife touched him on the arm, and he turned. Shewas white to the lips. 

"David, " she said, and struggled with her speech. "David. "

"Well?" he answered, with a pregnant calm. 

"David, he is not--not dead?"

"Not yet, " he answered; "but I cannot say how it will be when I getthere. " A tenderness overwhelmed him, and he caught a great sob andput his arm about her. "All must be ready, little cousin. Time enoughto grieve afterwards--all our lives, Christina, all our lives!"

She put her hand on his breast. 

"All shall be ready, David, " she answered. "Trust me, David. "

He drove off, and she watched him lash the horses down the hill andforce them at the drift--he, the man who loved horses, and knew themas he knew his children. His children! She fled into the house to doher office, and to drink to the bottom of the cup the bitterness ofmotherhood. A cool bed, linen, cold water and hot water, brandy andmilk, all the insignia of the valley of the shadow did she put tohand, and con over and adjust and think upon, and then there was thewaiting. She waited on the stoep, burning and tortured, boring at thehorizon with dry eyes, and praying and hoping. A lifetime went inthose hours, and the sun was slanting down before the road yielded, far and far away, a speck that grew into a cart going slowly. By andby she was able to see her husband driving, but nobody with him--onlya rag or a garment that fluttered from the side. Her mind snatched atit; was it--God! what was it?

David drove into the yard soberly; she was at the stoep. 

"All is ready, " she said, in a low voice. "Will you bring him in?"

"Yes, " he said; and she went inside with her heart thrashing like akicking horse. 

David carried in his son in his arms; he was not yet past that. Onthe white bed inside they laid him, and where his fair head touchedthe pillow it dyed it red. Frikkie's face was white and blue, and hisjaw hung oddly; but once he was within the door, some reinforcementof association came to Christina, and she went about her ministrypurposefully and swiftly, a little comforted. At the back of herbrain dwelt some idea such as this: here was her house, her home, there David, there Frikkie, here she, and where these were togetherDeath could never make the fourth. The same thought sends a strickenchild to its mother. David leant on the foot of the bed, his burningeyes on the face of his son, and his brows tortured with anxiety. Christina brought some drink in a cup and held it to the still lipsof the young man. 

"Drink. Frikkie, " she pleaded softly. "Drink, my kleintje. Only adrop, Frikkie, and the pain will fly away. "

She spoke as though he were yet a child, for a mother knows nothingof manhood when her son lies helpless. The arts that made him a manshall keep him a man; so she coaxed the closed eyes and the dumbmouth. 

But Frikkie would not drink, heard nothing, gave no sign. Christinalaid drenched cloths to his forehead, deftly cleansed and bandagedthe gaping rent in the base of the skull whence the life whistledforth, and talked to her boy all the while in the low crooning mothervoice. David never moved from the foot of the bed, and never loosedhis drawn brows. In came little Paul silently and took his hand, buthe never looked down, and the father and the child remained therethroughout the languid afternoon. 

Evening cool was growing up when Frikkie opened his eyes. Christinawas wetting towels for bandages, and her back was towards him, butshe knew instantly, and came swiftly to his side. David leanedforward breathlessly, and little Paul cried out with the grip of hishand. They saw a waver of recognition in Frikkie's eyes, a fondlight, and it seemed that his lips moved. Christina laid her ear tothem. 

"And--a--shod--horse!" murmured Frikkie. Nothing more. An hour afterhe was cold, and David was alone on the stoep, questioning pitilessskies and groping for God, while Christina knelt beside the bedwithin and wept blood from her soul. 

They buried Frikkie in a little kraal on the hillside, and David madethe coffin. When he nailed down the lid he was an old man; when thefirst red clod rang on it, he felt that life had emptied itself. Whenthey were back in the house again, Christina turned to him. 

"You knew, " she said, in a strange voice--"you knew, but you couldnot save him. " And she laughed aloud. David covered his face with hishands and groaned, but the next instant Christina's arms were abouthim. 

Yet of their old life, before the deluge of grief, too much was happyto be all swamped. Time softened the ruggedness of their woundsomewhat, and a day came when all the world was no longer black. Little Paul helped them much, for what had once been Frikkie's wasnow his; and as he grew before their eyes, his young strength andbeauty were a balm to them. David was much abroad in the lands now, for he was growing mealies and rapidly becoming a rich man; and as herode oft in the morning and rode in at sundown, his new gravity ofmind and mien broke up to the youngster who jumped at the stirrupwith shouts and laughter, and demanded to ride on the saddle-bow. Atintervals, also, Paul laid claim to a gun, to spurs, to a watch, toall the things that go in procession across a child's horizon, andChristina was not proof against the impulse to smile at him. 

It is not to be thought, of course, that the shock of foreknowledge, of omnipotent vision, had left David scathless. Though the otherdetails of the tragedy shared his memory, and elbowed the terrifyingsense of revelation, he would find himself now and again peering atthe future, straining to foresee, as a sailor bores at a fog-bank. Then he would catch himself, and start back shuddering to the instantmatters about him. Eventualities he could meet, but in their seasonand hand to hand; afar off they mastered him. Christina, too, dwelton it at seasons; but, by some process of her woman's mind, it wasless dreadful to her than to David: she, too, could dream at times. 

One day she was at work within the house, and Paul ran in and out. She spoke to him once about introducing an evil-smelling water-tortoise; he went forth to exploit it in the yard. From time to timehis shrill voice reached her; then the frayed edges of David's blacktrousers of ceremony engaged her, to the exclusion of all else. Between the scissors and the needle, at last, there stole on her eara faint tap, tap--such a sound as water dropping on to a board makes. It left her unconscious for a while, and then grew a little louder, with a note of vehemence. At last she looked up and listened. Tap, tap, it went, and she sprang from her chair and went to the stoep andlooked out along the road. Far off on the hillside was a horse, ridden furiously on the downward road, and though dwarfed by themiles, she could see the rider flogging and his urgent crouch overthe horse's withers. It was a picture of mad speed, of terror andviolence, and struck her with a chill. Were the Kafirs risen? shequeried. Was there war abroad? Was this mad rider her husband?

The last question struck her sharply, and she glanced about. LittlePaul was sitting on a stone, plaguing the water-tortoise with astick, and speaking to himself and it. The sight reassured her, andshe viewed the rider again with equanimity. But now she was able toplace him: it was David, and the horse was his big roan. The pace atwhich he rode was winding up the distance, and the hoofs no longertap-tapped, but rang insistently. There was war, then; it could benothing else. Her category of calamities was brief, and war and thedeath of her dear ones nearly exhausted it. 

David galloped the last furlongs with a tightened rein, and frothsnowed from the bit. He pulled up in the yard and slipped from thesaddle. Christina saw again on his face the white stricken look andthe furrowed frown that had stared on Frikkie's death. David stoodwith the bridle in his hand and the horse's muzzle against his armand looked around. He saw Christina coming toward him with quicksteps, and little Paul, abandoning the skellpot, running to greethim. He staggered and drew his hand across his forehead. 

Christina had trouble to make him speak. "A dream, " he kept saying, "an evil dream. "

"A lying dream, " suggested Christina anxiously. 

"Yes, " he hastened to add, "a lying dream. "

"About--about little Paul?" was her timid question. 

David was silent for a while, and then answered. "I saw him dead, " hereplied, with a shudder. "God! I saw it as plain as I saw him amoment ago in the kraal. "

They heard the child's gleeful shout the same instant. "I've got you!I've got you!" he cried from without. 

"He has a water-tortoise, " explained Christina with a smile. "Paul, "she called aloud, "come indoors. "

"Ja, " shouted the child, and they heard him run up the steps of thestoep. 

"Look, " he said, standing at the door, "I found this in the grass. What sort is it, father?"

David saw something lithe and sinuous in the child's hands, andstiffened in every limb. Paul had a skaapstikker in his grip, thegreen-and-yellow death-snake that abounds in the veldt. Its head layon his arm, its pin-point eyes maliciously agleam, and the childgripped it by the middle. Christina stood petrified, but the boylaughed and dandled the reptile in glee. 

"Be still, Paul, " said David, in a voice that was new to him--"bestill; do not move. "

The child looked up at him in astonishment. "Why?" he began. 

"Be still, " commanded David, and went over to him cautiously. Theserpent's evil head was raised as he approached, and it hissed athim. Paul stood quite quiet, and David advanced his naked hand to hiscertain death and the delivery of his child. The reptile poised, andas David snatched at it, it struck--but on his sleeve. The nextinstant was a delirious vision of writhing green and yellow; therewas a cry from Paul, and the snake was on the floor. David crushed itfuriously with his boot. 

Christina snatched the child. "Did it bite you, Paul!" she screamed. "Did it bite you?"

The boy shook his head, but David interposed with a voice of thunder. 

"Of course it did!" he vociferated with blazing eyes; "what else didmy dream point to? But we'll fight with God yet. Bring me the child, Christina. "

On the plump forearm of Paul they found two minute punctures and twotiny points of blood. David drew his knife, and the child shriekedand struggled. 

"Get a hot iron, Christina, " cried David, and gripped Paul with hisknees. 

In the morning the room was wild and grisly with blood and the smellof burnt flesh, and David lay face downwards on the floor, writhingas the echoes of Paul's shrieks tortured his ears. But in the nextroom little Paul was still for ever, and all the ghostly labor was tono purpose. 

I suppose there is some provision in the make of humanity foroverflow grief, some limit impregnable to affliction; for when littlePaul was laid beside his brother, there were still David andChristina to walk aimlessly in their empty world. Their scars weredeep, and they were crippled with woe, and it seemed to them theylived as paralytics live, dead in all save in their susceptibility totorture. Moreover, there was a barrier between them in David'sdisastrous foreknowledge, for Christina could not throw off thethought that it contained the causal elements which had robbed her ofher sons. Pain had fogged her; she could not probe the matter, andsensations tyrannised over her mind. David, too, was bowed with asense of guilt that he could not rise to throw off. All motive wasburied in the kraal; and he and his wife sat apart and spent days andnights without the traffic of speech. 

But Christina was seized with an idea. She woke David in the nightand spoke to him tensely. 

"David, " she cried, gripping him by the arm. "David! We cannot livefor ever. Do you hear me? Look, David, look hard! Look where youlooked before. Can you see nothing for me--for us, David?"

He was sitting up, and the spell of her inspiration claimed him. Heopened his eyes wide and searched the barren darkness for a sign. Hegroped with his mind, tore at the bonds of the present. 

"Do you see nothing?" whispered Christina. "Oh, David, there must besomething. Look--look hard!"

For the space of a hundred seconds they huddled on the bed, Davidfumbling with the keys of destiny, Christina waiting, breathless. 

"Lie down, " said David at last. "You are going to die, little cousin. It is all well. " His voice was the calmest in the world. "And you!"cried Christina; "David, and you?"

"I see nothing, " he said. 

"Poor David!" murmured his wife, clinging to him. "But I am sure allwill yet be well, David. Have no fear, my husband. "

She murmured on in the dark, with his arm about her, and promised himdeath, entreated him to believe with her, and coaxed him with thebait of the grave. They were bride and groom again, they two, andslept at last in one another's arms. 

In the morning all was well with Christina, and she bustled about asof old. David was still, and hoped ever, with a tired content in whatshould happen, a languor that forbade him from railing on fate. Together they prepared matters as for a journey. 

"If the black trousers come frayed again, " said Christina, "try toremember that the scissors are better than a knife. And the seeds areall in the box under our bed. "

"In the box under our bed, " repeated David carefully. "Yes, under thebed. I will remember. "

"And this, David, " holding up piles of white linen, "this is for me. You will not forget?"

"For you?" he queried, not understanding. 

"Yes, " she answered softly. "I will be buried in this. "

He started, but recovered himself with a quivering lip. 

"Of course, " he answered. "I will see to it. I must be very old, Christina. "

She came over and kissed him on the forehead. 

In the middle of the afternoon she went to bed, and he came in andsat beside her. She held his hand, and smiled at him. 

"Are you dying now?" he asked at length. 

"Yes, " she said. "What shall I tell Frikkie and the kleintje fromyou?"

"Tell them nothing, " he said, after a pause. "It cannot be that Ishall be apart from you all long. No; I am very sure of that. "

She pressed his hand, and soon afterwards felt some pain. It waslittle, and she made no outcry. Her death was calm and not stronglydistressing, and the next day David put her into the ground where hersons lay. 

But, as I have made clear, he did not die till long afterwards, whenhe had sold his farm and come to live in the little white house inthe dorp, where colors jostled each other in the garden, andfascinated children watched him go in and come out. I think the storyexplains that perpetual search of which his vacant eyes gave news, and the joyous alacrity of his last home-coming, and the perfecttechnique of his death. It all points to the conclusion, that howeverbrave the figures, however aspiring their capers, they but respond tostrings which are pulled and loosened elsewhere. 

XII

THE HIDDEN WAY

A veil 'twixt us and Thee, dread Lord, A veil 'twixt us and Thee!Lest we should hear too clear, too clear, And unto madness see. 

Carrick crossed the fields in time to see, from the low bank abovethe churchyard, the children coming forth from Sunday school in thechurch, blinking contentedly at the late summer sunlight and all thefamiliar world from which, for two hours, they had been exiles. Alittle behind them came Mr. Newman, carrying his sober hat in hishand, and the curate. 

"Hi!" called Carrick, and they turned toward him as he came down thebank, with his sly spaniel shambling at his heels. 

The curate looked with disfavor at Carrick's worn tweed clothes andhis general week-day effect. "I think, " he said primly, "I'll begetting along. "

"I should, " said Carrick shortly, turning his back on him. "I want tospeak to you, Newman. "

"Then we will walk together, " agreed Mr. Newman. "Good-bye till thisevening, " he called after the departing curate. 

It was an afternoon of June, languid and fragrant; the declining sunwas in their faces as they went in company under the high arches ofthe elms, in a queer contrast of costume and personality. Carrick, the man of science, the adventurer in the bypaths of knowledge, affronted the Sabbath in the clothes which gave offence to thecurate. He was a thin, impatient man, standing on the brink of middleage, with the hard, intent face of one accustomed to verify theevidence of his own senses. A habit he had of doing his thinking inthe open air had left him tanned and limber; he walked easily, withthe light foot of an athlete, while Mr. Newman, decorous in the blackclothes which are the uniform of the regular churchgoer, troddeliberately at his side and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. 

"It was very warm in the church this afternoon, " explained Mr. Newmanmildly. "Very warm. "

He was an older man than Carrick, and altogether a riper and mostcomplacent figure. He had a large and benevolent face, which wouldhave been common-place but for a touch of steadfastness and serenitywhich dignified it, and an occasional vivacity of the kindly eyes. One perceived in him a man who had come smoothly through life, securein plain faiths and clear hopes, unafraid of destiny. Somethingreverend in his general effect accentuated his difference from hiscompanion. 

"Ventilation, " Carrick was saying. "On an afternoon like this youmight as well shut those children up in a family vault. Twenty ofthem, all breathing carbonic acid gas, besides yourself--and thatass!"

"You mean the curate?" inquired Mr. Newman. "Really, he isn't an ass. He didn't like your clothes--that was all. "

"What's the matter with 'em?" demanded Carrick, inspecting his shabbysleeve. "You don't want me to dress up like--like you, do you?"

"My dear fellow!" Mr. Newman smiled protestingly, lifting a suavehand. "I don't care how you dress. I don't want you to 'make broadyour phylacteries, ' you know. "

Carrick snorted, and they walked in silence through the littlevillage that lay below the church. 

The matter they had in common, which bridged their diversity and madeit possible for them to be, after their fashion, friends, was theirinterest in the subject which Carrick had made his own--experimentalpsychology. Like all successful business men, Mr. Newman had anunschooled aptitude for the science, and had practised it with profiton his competitors and employees before he knew a word of itstechnology. In Carrick's bare and lamp-lit study they had joinedforces to bewilder and undermine the intelligence of the sly spaniel, and there had been sessions of hypnotism, with Mr. Newman rigid intrances, while Carrick groped, as it were, among the springs of hismind. The pair of them had incurred the indignation of Europeanauthorities, writing in obscure and costly little journals whosenames the general public never heard. The bond of martyrdom--martyrdom in print--united them. 

"By the way, " suggested Mr. Newman, when the village was behind themand they were walking between high hedgerows flamboyant with summergrowth. "By the way, wasn't there something you wanted to speak tome about?"

"Eh? Oh yes, " replied Carrick. "Bother! I want you to come to myplace to-night to try something--something new, a big thing. "

"To-night?" said Mr. Newman. "No, not to-night, Carrick. "

"Why not?" demanded Carrick. "I tell you, it's a big thing. I've hadan idea of it for some time; those clairvoyant tests put me on to it;but I've only just got it clear. It's big. "

Mr. Newman shook his head. "Not to-night, " he said. "You're a queerfellow, Carrick; you never can remember what day of the week it isfor more than five minutes at a time. "

"Oh!" Carrick scowled. "You mean it's Sunday. But this--I tell you, this isn't just an ordinary thing, Newman. I'll explain--it's new andit's big!"

"No, " said Newman. "Not to-night, Carrick, please!"

"Hang it!" said Carrick. He would have spoken more liberally, but thechoice was between restraint in language and the loss of Mr. Newmanas an acquaintance. That had been made clear soon after their firstmeeting. 

Mr. Newman smiled, and rested a large hand on Carrick's arm. 

"We go by different roads to our goal, Carrick, " he said, "but it isthe same goal. We serve the same Master, under different names and indifferent ways. You call Him Science and I call Him Christ--the sameMaster, though; and my services take me to church to-night. But to-morrow, if you like, I will come over to your place. "

"Get back, " said Carrick violently to the dog. "To heel, you beast!"

The fork of the road was in front of them; they paused at thedivision of the way. 

"Will that suit you?" inquired Mr. Newman. "I can come round afterdinner. "

Carrick gave him a look in which contempt, fury, and a certainlyinvoluntary liking were strangely at war. 

"Of all the sanctimonious asses, " he said, and broke off. "Good-night!" he concluded abruptly. 

"I'll come, then, " said Mr. Newman, smiling. "Good-night, my dearfellow. "

He went off at his deliberate gait, humming to himself the tune ofthe last hymn which the children had sung at the Sunday school. Evening was settling about him on the trees and fields; after thestill heat of the sun, it was like an amen to the day, a vast lownote of organ music. There was a pond gleaming among the trees. 

"He leadeth me beside the still waters, " he said aloud to himself, and then Carrick's footsteps were audible behind him. He turned. Carrick came up swiftly. 

"Don't eat much dinner to-morrow night, " he said, with immenseseriousness. 

"It's more hypnotism, then?" inquired Mr. Newman. 

Carrick nodded. "Yes, " he said. "But--it's a big thing, all thesame. "

He clicked to his dog and went off abruptly, passing with long, jerkystrides into the enveloping stillness of the evening, and Mr. Newmanresumed his homeward walk, taking up his mood of reflective quiet atthe point where Carrick had broken in upon it. He was a man made forthe Sabbath; he breathed its atmosphere of a day consecrated toobservances with a pleasure that was almost sensuous. For him, pietywas that manner of life which gave the quality of Sunday to eachother of the seven days of the week, softening them and renderingthem august with the sense of a great adorable Presence presidingover their hours. 

The curate who disliked Carrick occupied the pulpit that evening; hepreached from half a text, after the manner of curates. "For theyshall see God"--he repeated it in a poignant undertone--he, tall andyoung and priestly in his vestments, seen against the dim glory of astained window--and Mr. Newman, attentive in his pew, leaned forwardsuddenly to hear, like a man touched by excitement. 

Carrick's study was one of a pair of rooms he had added to thefarmhouse which he inhabited, a long apartment of many windows, designed for spaciousness, and possessing no other good quality. Nofire could warm more than an end of it, and his lamp, wherever it wasplaced, was but a heart of light in a body of shadow. He hadfurnished it with the things he required; a desk was here, a tablethere, bookcases were along the walls, a variety of chairs stoodwhere he happened to push them. It had the air of a waiting-room or amortuary. 

Carrick was at his desk when Mr. Newman, on the Monday evening, wasshown in to him by the ironclad widow who kept house for him. Helooked up with impatience as his guest entered. 

"Oh, it's you?" was his greeting. 

"Good evening, " said Mr. Newman cheerfully. "You'd forgotten toexpect me, I suppose. But I'm here, all the same. "

"All right, " said Carrick. "Sit down somewhere, will you?"

He rose and shoved a chair forward with his foot for Mr. Newman'saccommodation, and began to walk slowly to and fro with his hands inhis pockets. 

"Well, " said Newman; "and what's this miracle we're to work?"

"I'll show you, " said Carrick, still walking. He stopped and turnedtoward his guest. "Newman, " he said, "where do you reckon you were ahundred years ago?"

Mr. Newman laughed, crossing his legs as he sat. 

"I'm not as old as that, " he replied. "Whatever place you'rethinking of, I wasn't there. "

Carrick was frowning thoughtfully. "I'm not thinking of places, " hesaid. "You--you exist; the matter that composes you is indestructible;the--the essential you, the thing in that matter that makes itmean something, the soul, if you like--that's indestructible, too. Everything's indestructible. A hundred years hence, you'll besomewhere; but where were you--you, that is--a hundred years ago?"

He pointed the "you" with a jabbing forefinger as he spoke it, standing in front of Mr. Newman in the lamplight and talking down tohim. 

"Oh!" said Mr. Newman, "I see--yes! A hundred years, ago I was partof my Maker's unfinished plan of to-day. "

"Were you?" said Carrick, snapping at him. "You were, eh? Part of--we'll see! Come over to the big chair and undo your collar. "

Mr. Newman rose; the big arm-chair was his place when Carrickhypnotised him, and the loosening of his collar was part of theritual. 

"What is the idea?" he asked, fumbling at his stud. 

"Tell you afterwards, " said Carrick. "If I told you now, you'd notget it out of your mind. Can't you get that collar off, man?"

"It was stiff, " apologised Mr. Newman, arranging himself in the largechair. "How are you going to do it?"

Carrick's hot hand pressed his head back on the cushions. 

"Shut up, " he was told. "Let yourself go, now; just let yourself go. "

The chair faced the blank, bare wall of the room; there was nothingin front of Mr. Newman for his eyes to rest on and take hold of. Carrick's hands no longer touched his head; he was alone in hischair, in a posture of ease, with the gear of his mind slacked off, his consciousness unmoored to drift with what-ever current shouldflow about it. He knew, without noting it, that something like a fogwas creeping up about him; the pale wall became a bank of mist, stirring slowly; his pulse was a rhythm that lulled him faintly. He--the aggregate of powers, capacities habits that made the sum of him--was adrift, flowing like a vapor that leaks into the air and thinsabroad. A coolness was on his forehead as of a little breeze. 

Carrick, behind the chair, saw that his head drooped, and came roundto look at him. He seemed to slumber with his eyes half open, and hisplump hands, white and luxurious, were clasped in his lap. Carrickconsidered him and then crossed to his desk to get his pipe. Heexpected to have to wait for some time. 

But it was less than five minutes before Mr. Newman stirred like aman who moves in his-sleep and emitted a long gusty sigh. His handsunclasped; he drove up to consciousness like a diver who shoots upthrough strangling fathoms of water to the generous air above. Lifewas compelling him; through the confusion of his senses he feltCarrick's hand on his shoulder and heard him speaking. 

"Feeling quite all right--what? Here, drink some of this. It's onlywater. A drop more? Right!"

Mr. Newman pushed the glass away and sat upright, staring wide-eyedinto the curious face of Carrick, who bent over him, tumbler in hand. 

"All right?" asked Carrick again. 

"Yes--now, " replied Mr. Newman slowly. "But--what did you do to me, Carrick?"

Carrick gave a relieved snort and set the tumbler down on themantelshelf. 

"What did I do?" he repeated. "Opened a door for you--that's all. What did you find the other side?"

Mr. Newman passed an uncertain hand across his eyes. The feeling withwhich he had returned to consciousness, that liberties had been takenwith him, was leaving him as the familiar ugly room grew about himagain. 

"It was queer, " he said doubtfully, and Carrick bent his head ineagerness to listen. 

"You've been hypnotised before, often enough. What was queer?"

"Hypnotism is unconsciousness, so far as I'm concerned, " said Mr. Newman. "But this--wasn't! Not dreams, either; the thing was soabsolutely real. "

"Go on, " said Carrick, as he paused to ponder. 

"I felt myself going off, you know, just as usual--the mistiness, thereposefulness, the last moment when one would rebel if one could--butone can't; that was all ordinary. And then came the blank, thatsecond of utter emptiness, as though one were alone in the wildernessof outer space, and light were not yet created. As a rule, that endsit; one's asleep then. But this time I wasn't. It seemed--it sort ofdawned toward me----" Mr. Newman groped for a word which eluded him, with a face that brooded heavily. 

"What did?" demanded Carrick. 

"It was a lightness, first of all, a thinning of the dark, that grewand broadened till it was like a thing coming at me--like somethingthrown at me. And suddenly it was all about me, and I was in it, andit was daylight--just ordinary daylight, you know. There was a white, flat road, with a hedge on one side and a low leaning fence on theother, and over the fence there were fields; and I was walking alongby the roadside, with the thick powdery dust kicking up from under myfeet as I went. "

He paused. "Yes?" cried Carrick. "Yes? Yes?"

"I don't remember what I was thinking, " said Mr. Newman. "Perhaps Iwasn't thinking. I saw a signpost farther along the road withsomething like a long bundle--it was rather like a limp bolster, Ifancy--hanging from it. I was staring toward it, when there came anoise behind me, like a trumpet being blown, and I turned to see acoach with four horses come tearing along toward me, with a red-coated man at the back, blowing a horn. The roof of it was crowdedwith people curiously dressed; they all looked down on me as theycame abreast, and their faces had a sort of strange roughness. I sawthem as clearly as all that--a coarseness, it was--a kind of cruelstupidity. Several of them seemed to be pock-marked, too. It struckme; I wondered how a coach-load of such people had been gatheredtogether; and I might have wondered longer; but one of them laughed, a great neighing guffaw of a laugh, as the coachman swung his whip. "

Mr. Newman paused, and his hand floated to his face again. 

"It cut me across here, " he said thoughtfully. "It--it hurt. Awfully!"

Carrick nodded. 

"And that was all, " Mr. Newman went on. "At the sting of the lash, asthough some one had turned a switch, the daylight went out--to thesound of that gross animal laugh. There was again the frozen dark, the solitude--the chill--and I heard you saying, as from anotherplanet, across great gulfs of space: 'Drink some of this!' Only--"

"Yes?"

"It's like a memory of something that actually took place. I ought tohave a weal just below my eyes where the whip took me-it wasn't fiveminutes ago. I remember the dusty smell of that white road-and howthe thing that hung on the signpost was-some-how-ugly and nasty. It'sawfully queer, Carrick. "

"Yes!" Carrick sank his hands in his pockets and walked away to theshadowy far end of the room. Mr. Newman sat in thought, flavoring thevivid quality of his vision, with his underlip caught up between histeeth. The great room was silent for a space of minutes. 

"I say!" Carrick spoke from the other end of it. 

"What?"

"That signpost you saw-it wasn't a signpost, you know. "

"What was it, then?"

"It was a gallows, " said Carrick, "with a man hanging on it. "

There was a pause. "Eh?" said Mr. Newman, and rose from his chair. "Carrick, what exactly did you do to me?"

"I sent you back a hundred years, " Carrick answered, in a measuredvoice. His excitement got the better of his restraint and his voicecracked. "Part of the-what was it you said you were, Newman?" hecried, on a note of shrillness. "I tell you, man, you've proved ahundred things you never dreamed of-theories of mine. You've provedthem, I tell you. I've dipped you back into the past as I dip myhands into water. What you saw was what happened; it was you-you, man, a hundred years ago. Oh, why did I stop at a hundred? Athousand, a dozen thousand years would have been as easy. "

He came down the long room almost at a run. 

"Newman, " he said, taking the elder man by the arm with a swift, feverish hand; "we've got 'em, all those old diploma-screened foolsthat call us quacks-Zinzau, Berlier, von Rascowicz, Scott-Evans-we'vegot 'em. We'll make 'em squeal. Before I've done with you, we'll seewhat the earth was like when it was in the pot, being cooked. Youshall be a batwinged lizard again, and a cave-dweller, and a flintman. We'll turn you loose through history-our special correspondentat the siege of Troy-what?"

He broke into high, uncontrollable laughter. 

"The Wandering Jew, " he babbled. "We'll show him!"

Mr. Newman heard him with growing wonder, but now he shook his armloose. 

"Get yourself a drink, " he said. "You're raving. I want to talk toyou. "

The word was enough; Carrick stopped laughing, and walked away towardhis desk. Mr. Newman, standing by the big arm-chair from which he hadjust risen, looked after him with a sudden liveliness growing in hisface. The experience through which he had just come, abiding with himas so secure a memory, precluded the doubts he might otherwise havefelt; Carrick's words and his excitement, so unusual in him, and theclear, unquestionable sense of recollection with which he summonedagain to his mind the white dusty road, the swaying body of thehanged man, the drum of the hoofs of the coach-horses-these stormedhis reason and forced conviction on him. 

"The siege of Troy, you said?" he asked, with a nervous titter. Thething was gripping him. 

Carrick had seated himself at his desk, as though to steady himselfby the sight of its prosaic litter. He looked up now, his facecomposed and usual in the light of the reading lamp. 

"Or anywhere, " he said shortly. He nodded two or three timesimpressively; he was master of himself again. "It's true, Newman; Ican do it; I've opened the door. We must have a few more tests andverify the method by trying it on another subject. Then we'll go towar with the professors. "

"Ye-es, " agreed Mr. Newman absently. "Anywhere, you said? You canopen my eyes at any period in time? You can do that, Carrick?"

"Well, " began Carrick, and paused. "Why?" he demanded. "What have yougot in your mind?"

Mr. Newman came slowly down toward him till he leaned across the topof the desk facing the younger man. He was smiling still, but a firehad lit in his eyes, something adventurous and strong looked outthrough them. The elderly stout man was braced and exalted like amartyr going to the stake. 

"Can you?" he repeated. "Can you, Carrick? Say--can you do that?"

"Unless----" hesitated the other, staring at him. "But--you must havebeen somewhere, at any time. Yes, I can do it. "

Mr. Newman's eyes looked over his head and beyond him. 

"Then, " he said, and a deep note reverberated in his even voice--"then show me the day on which Christ died!"

He continued to look past Carrick at the shadowy end of the room, still smiling his strange and uplifted smile. 

Carrick moved in his chair, with a half-gesture as of irritation. 

"Look here, " he said. "Pull yourself together, Newman. There arelimits, you know, after all. "

Two days elapsed before the evening on which the attempt was to bemade; Carrick, alleging difficulties and dangers with long scientificnames, had refused to try it earlier. He had been unwilling to try itat all. 

"I don't want to mix up a matter of clear science with your religiousemotions, " he had declared. "And I've got a certain amount ofreligion of my own, for that matter. I manage to believe in itwithout corroboration; what's the matter with yours, that you can'tdo the same?"

But it was not corroboration which Mr. Newman desired. He had not somuch argued as insisted; and it had been difficult to reason with hismanner of one buoyed up, exalted, inspired. He had had his way, onthe sole condition that he should wait two days--"and give sanity achance, " Carrick had added. 

But on the stroke of nine, on the appointed evening, he was standingwithin the door of Carrick's study, his hat in his hand, a white silkmuffler about his neck, instead of a collar. 

"I was very careful to eat very little at dinner, " were his firstwords. 

Carrick, who had been looking forward to his arrival with nervousdread, glanced up sharply with an affectation of annoyance at aninterruption. 

"More fool you, " he barked, in his harshest voice. Mr. Newman smiled, and laid his hat down on the table and began to unwind his muffler. 

Carrick frowned at him. "I'm rather busy to-night, Newman, " he said. That had no effect. He rose. "Besides, something has occurred to me, and--it is not safe, you know. "

Mr. Newman laid his muffler beside his hat; without it he had acuriously incomplete and undressed appearance. He turned round. 

"Oh yes, it is, " he contradicted mildly. "As safe as it was onMonday, at any rate!"

"Ah!" Carrick caught him up eagerly. "But that wasn't safe, either. I hadn't thought of this then. You see, we don't understand yet howthe thing applies. What is it that becomes conscious in the periodyou see? Is it you, in an earlier incarnation? If so, supposing I--Ilet go of you at a time when you were dead! What happens then? Do Iget you back--or what?"

He tried to make the consideration graphic, driving it at Mr. Newman's serenity with a knit brow and a moving forefinger. 

Mr. Newman shook his head. "I don't know, " he answered, unmoved byCarrick's fervor. "I can't tell you that. But--you leave me where youfound me--in the hands of my God. "

With the same quiet cheerfulness, he crossed to the big chair, turnedit to face the wall, and sat down in it. "I'm quite ready, " he said. 

Carrick was still standing by the table. He was frowning heavily; theproceeding was utterly against his inclination. When Mr. Newmanspoke, he sighed windily, a sigh of resignation, of defeat. 

"I warned you, " he said, and wiped the palms of his hands on histrousers for what he had to do. 

A less honest man than Carrick, finding himself in the likepredicament, might plausibly have contrived a failure. Nothing easierthan to tell Mr. Newman that nerves, a mental burden, or what not, stood in the way of the adventure. Mr. Carrick got to work forthwith. 

Mr. Newman, supine in his chair, knew the preliminary stages of theprocess well. They took longer than usual to-night; both of them wereunkeyed and had to compose themselves to the affair. But at last thevisible world, the wall before him, commenced to dislimn; it shifted;it became mist, writhing and tinged with faint colors, that submergedhis will and his consciousness, till they sank, gathering impetus, into a void below--the vacancy of the spirit that looses its hold onthe body and is rudderless. He knew the blackness which is death, themomentary throe of entering it, the shock, the sense of chill, thedumbness. 

"Ah!" Carrick saw that his head fell, and ceased his labors. Hestood, gaunt and perplexed, contemplating the body from which he hadexpelled the will, the life--the soul. It was a plump body, wellclad, well fed, a carcase that had absorbed much of its world. Itcost labor and the pains of innumerable toilers to clothe it, nourishit, maintain it, guard, comfort, and embellish it. And an effort often minutes was enough to drain it of all save the fleshly, the merebestial. The habit of his mind impelled him to sneer as he stoodabove it, to moralise in the tune of cynicism. "Ecce homo!" were thewords he chanced upon; but the flavor of them troubled him when heremembered the goal of the journey upon which that absent spirit haddeparted. 

"Oh, Lord!" said Carrick, in a kind of whispering panic. 

He cast scared looks to and fro, as though he feared the great roomshould contain a spy upon him. It was empty save for him and thatwitless body. He put his hands together with the gesture of a childand shut his eyes tight. 

"Our Father, " he began, "Which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name!"

The place was as still as a church. He recited his prayer aloud, in aquiet, careful voice that echoed faintly among the book-shelves. 

He bad got as far as "Thine is the kingdom, the power"--no farther--when Mr. Newman stirred, and he gabbled the words to an end hastilybefore he opened his eyes. Mr. Newman came back to consciousnesswith a rush; his body inflated with life, his still face woke, andhis vacant eyes, meeting Carrick's and recognising him, suddenly litwith sense--and terror. 

"I say!" exclaimed Carrick; "will you have some water?"

His hand groped for the glass on the mantelshelf, but he continued tolook at Mr. Newman, and presently he forgot the glass. Terror was theword, the terror of a man who finds--unawaited, ambushed in hisbeing--depths and capacities unguessed and appalling. A blank, horror-ridden face fronted his own, till Mr. Newman put his handsbefore his face and shuddered. "What is it?" cried Carrick. "Oldchap, what's up?"

"My God!"

It was not an expletive, but a prayer, a supplication. Mr. Newmandashed the hands from his face and sprang up. Carrick caught him bythe arm. 

"I say, " he cried. "It's rot. It's a fake--it must be! Whateverhappened--it's not a sure thing. Pull yourself together, Newman. I--Imay be wrong; perhaps it's all an induced--you know, an illusion. Isay, look here----"

"No!"

Gently, but with decision, Mr. Newman put his friendly hand away. "It's not an illusion, " he said. 

He walked away. Carrick stood staring after him, a battlefield ofcompunctions and a growing curiosity. Mr. Newman was wrestling withhis trouble in the shadows; minutes passed before he came again intothe lamplight. His face was blenched, but something like a strickenpurpose dwelt on it. 

"I'll tell you, " he said. Then, wildly, "Oh, man! why did you let me?This trick of yours--it's the knowledge of good and evil; it's theforbidden fruit. Why did you let me?"

Carrick stammered futilely; there was no answer possible to give. 

"I am a Christian, " went on Mr. Newman, as though he appealed forjustification. "By my lights I serve God. I try not to judge others. I've not judged you, have I, Carrick? You--you don't go to church, but I make a friend of you, don't I?"

"Yes, " said Carrick. 

"Then--why--" cried Mr. Newman--"why, of all people, should I--oh, Carrick, I don't know how to tell you. "

Let Carrick's answer be remembered when his epitaph is written. 

"Then don't tell me, " he said. "I don't want to hear. "

Mr. Newman shook his head. He had come to a standstill at the side ofthe big chair. He looked old and stricken and sad. 

"Ah, " he said. "But listen all the same. "

He remained standing while he told his tale, with eyes that soughtCarrick's listening face and fell away again. 

"It took you longer than it usually does, " he said; "to send me on, Imean. I expect I wasn't as good a subject as usual, too. I know I wasfull of a sort of gladness and expectation, for I didn't doubt thatyou could do it. I had a feeling that I was going to see--really tosee, with mortal eyes--Him, my Redeemer, the Son of God! I wasn'tafraid--only joyful with a great solemnity. I carried it with me, that joy, into the fog and darkness; it was all that I knew when theutter night surged up and gulfed me, and even life was forgotten. Iwas to see Him, like the pure in heart who are to see God. I had hadthat wonder in my mind since Sunday evening; the curate preached onit--and I--I thought my heart was pure. "

His fearful eyes fluttered to Carrick's face and sank. 

"The light came as it came before, " he went on, quickly andmiserably. "First a sense of something that was not mere darkness, infinitely distant, but swooping down upon me at an unimaginablespeed, broadening more quickly than the sense could follow--and thenit was daylight all about me, and I was in the world, seeing, hearing, and--yes, and speaking, speaking, Carrick. Oh, my God!"

He shivered and put a hand out to the arm of the big chair. Carricksaid nothing. 

"It's so clear, " said Mr. Newman. "If it weren't so clear, I mightpersuade myself that it was an illusion, a vision--but it's not. Ithappened. The first thing I know was that it was very hot. A sunstood in the sky; its rays beat on me, and they were strong. I was ina crowd of people, and they--we, that is--we all stood facing abuilding, a white building with a great door. There were many of us;I was thrust between two big hairy men, and there was a great noise. Everybody was shouting. I was shouting too. I had both my arms raisedabove my head, with my fists clenched--like that----"

Mr. Newman raised his shut hands as high as he could; his tragic facecompelled Carrick's eyes. 

"But my arms were bare and very brown, I noticed. I was shoutingvehemently, frantically, in some strange tongue. It was a language Ido not know; but I knew what I was shouting, and I know still. "

He stopped. Carrick waited. 

"What was it?" he asked at last. 

For answer Mr. Newman raised his arms again, the hands clenched, in asudden and savage gesture. 

"I was shouting like this, " he said, and raised a voice that Carrickdid not recognize. "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!"

He dropped his arms and stood staring at Carrick; then covered hisface with his hands. 

Carrick stood aghast and shaken. At last he went to his friend andtook his arm. 

XIII

THE STRANGE PATIENT

There were only two arrivals by the train from London when it stoppedat the little flower-banked station of Barthiam; and Mary, who waswaiting for it, had no difficulty in deciding which of them wasProfessor Fish. That great man never failed to look the part. Histall, lean figure, stooping at the shoulders, his big, smooth-shavenface, mildly abstracted behind his glasses, but retaining alwayssomething of a keen and formidable character, his soft hat and greatflapping ulster, made up a noticeable personality anywhere. He seemedalone to crowd the little platform; the small man who accompanied himwas lost in his shadow. 

"Professor Fish?" accosted Mary primly, at his elbow. 

He turned upon her with a movement like a swoop. 

"I am Mary Pond, " she explained. "My father was called away to acase, so he sent me to meet you and bring you up to the house. I havea fly waiting. "

"Ah!" The Professor nodded and was bland. "Very good of you to takethe trouble, Miss Pond. I am much obliged. " He stepped aside to lethis companion be seen. "This, " he explained, "is your--er--guest. "

Mary put out her hand, but the little man, who had been standingbehind the Professor, made no motion to take it. He was staring atthe planks of the platform; he lifted his eyes for an instant toglance at her, and dropped them again at once. Mary saw a listless, empty face, pale eyes, and pale hair, a mere effect of vacuity andweakness. The man drooped where he stood as though he were no morethan half alive; his clothes were grotesquely ill-fitting. A littlepuzzled, she looked up to the Professor, and saw that he was watchingher. 

"How do you do?" she asked gently of the little man. 

The Professor answered for him. "He does very well, Miss Pond, " hesaid robustly. "Much better than he thinks. Between ourselves, "dropping his voice and nodding at her with intention, "a mostremarkable case. Very remarkable indeed. And now, if I can find aporter, we might as well be moving. "

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before leaving them; then he setoff down the platform. He walked with long strides in great spasms ofenergy, as he did everything. Mary turned from looking after him tothe little creature beside her with a sense of absurd contrast. Asshe did so she saw that he too was looking after the Professor, andhis empty face had suddenly become intent; it was hardened andvicious, with the parted lips and narrow eyes of hate. The man haddiscovered some spring of life within his listless body. It lastedonly while one might draw a full breath; then he saw her scrutiny, and sank again to his still dreariness. It was a startling thing tosee that flabby little insignificance strengthen to such a force offeeling, and Mary was conscious of a sort of alarm. But before shecould frame a thing to say the Professor was back again, and theatmosphere of his vigour had enveloped them. 

Professor Fish sat next to her in the cab, and the new patient, whowas to be an inmate of her house for some time to come, leanedagainst the cushions opposite, with eyes half closed and his coarsehands folded in his lap. The Professor talked without ceasing, gazingthrough the open window at the fat lands of Kent unfolded beside theroad and torpid under the July sun; but Mary found more of interestin the still face before her, cryptic and mysterious in its uttervacancy. So little it expressed besides weakness that Mary wonderedwhat illness could thus have cut the man off from the world. She wasused to the waste products of life; one "resident patient" succeededanother at her father's house, and to each she was a deft nurse and asupple companion. They had in common, she found, a certainpaltriness; most of them had been overtaxed by easy burdens; but thisman's aspect conveyed suggestions of a long struggle with a burdenbeyond all strength. The meanness of him, all his appearance ofhaving begun in the gutter and failed there, touched her not at all;Mary had had too much to do with human flesh in the raw to be greatlyconcerned about such matters as that. 

Dr. Pond was at home to meet them when the cab drew up at the door, an elderly, good-natured man, white-haired and sprucely white-bearded. He greeted Professor Fish with some deference, and helpedthe new patient carefully forth from the cab. It was Mary's duty tosee the one trunk of new shining tin carried in and placed in theroom that was prepared for the house's new inmate. This done, shewent to the others in the little drawing-room. Her father andProfessor Fish were seated in the window, busy with talk; the newpatient had an upright chair against the wall, and sat in it with thesame lassitude and downcast gaze which had already drawn Mary'swondering compassion. The Professor rose at her entry. 

"Ah! Miss Pond, " he said in his cheerful, booming voice, "I was justgiving your father a few particulars about our young friend. "

"I should like to hear them, " she answered, taking the chair hereached for her. "You see, I shall have a good deal to do with him. "

Old Dr. Pond nodded. "Mary, " he said, "is my right hand, Professor. "

"Of course, " agreed the Professor. "I can see that. "

He was seated again, and he leaned across to Mary confidentially, with an explanatory forefinger hovering. 

"As I told your father, Miss Pond, it isn't necessary to go far backin the case, " he said. "As a matter of fact, I took this case up--experimentally. The subject was a good one for a--well, call it atheory of mine, a new idea in pathology. You see? I wanted to try iton the dog before publishing it, and our young friend there"--henodded at the back of the room and sank his voice--"he was the dog. You understand?"

Mary nodded, and the Professor smiled. 

"Well, " he said, "I have succeeded. The patient is convalescent, but--you see how he is. He has very little vital force, and also, occasionally, delusions. Merely ephemeral, you know, but delusions. He wants quiet chiefly, and very little else--just that atmosphere ofrepose and--er--peace which you can create for him, Miss Pond. "

"These delusions, " put in Dr. Pond, "are they of any specialcharacter!"

"H'm!" The Professor stroked his chin. "No, " he said. "Curious, youknow, but not symptomatic. " His hard eye scanned the old doctorpurposely. "Sometimes, " he said slowly, "he thinks he has been dead, and that I brought him back to life. "

"And he hates you for it, " suggested Mary. The Professor stared ather in open astonishment. 

"How on earth did you know that?" he cried. 

"I saw him looking after you in the station, " Mary explained. "Hejust--glared. "

"I see. " Professor Fish was always rather extravagant in manner andspeech; his relief now seemed a little exaggerated. He drew a deepbreath and glanced past Mary to the patient on his chair at the farend of the room. "Yes, " he said, "at such times he is distinctlyresentful. I don't wonder you noticed it. "

"Your letter didn't mention his name, " said Mary. 

"I should call him Smith, " answered the Professor. 

"It's a good name. And that, I think, is all there is to tell. Oh, bythe way, though he has no suicidal tendency, of course, or Ishouldn't put him here; but all the same----"

Mary nodded. "Quite so, " she said. "No razor. "

"Exactly, " said the Professor. "And no money. Give him the things heneeds, and let me have the bill. "

He rose and reached for his hat. 

"But you will stay and have something to eat, " protested old Dr. Pond. 

"Can't, " answered the Professor. "Got an engagement in town. I'vejust time to catch the train back. Now, you quite understand aboutthis case? Just quietness and soothing companionship, you know, freshair and sleep, and all that. "

"We quite understand, " said Mary. "We'll do our best. "

"I'm sure you will, " said Professor Fish cordially. He moved over towhere the patient sat; he had not moved at all. He continued to gazeat the carpet while the tall Professor stood over him. 

"Now, Smith, " said the Professor in his loud voice, "I'm off. You'rein good hands here, you know. You've only to take it easy and rest. "

"Rest?" Smith repeated the word in a hoarse whisper; it was thefirst he had spoken. He looked up, and his eye went to theProfessor's face with a sort of challenge. 

"Yes, " said the Professor. "Good-bye. "

Smith continued to look at him, but answered nothing. Professor Fishshrugged his shoulders and turned away sharply. 

"He'll soon pick up, " he said to Dr. Pond. "And now I really mustgo. "

He shook hands with Mary with a manner of cheerful vigour, beaming ather through his gold-rimmed glasses, big, whimsical, and quick. Amoment later, Dr. Pond was showing him out, and Mary, alone with herpatient, had another glimpse of hate and contempt animating andenlivening that weak and formless face. 

She waited till she heard the front door close and the Professor'sdeparting feet crunch on the gravel of the garden path. Then she wentand put a hand on the little man's shoulder. 

"You look very tired, " she said, quietly, in her level, pleasantvoice. "Would you like to go to your room and lie down? And I willsend you up some tea. "

There was a long pause, and she thought he was not going to answer. But she waited restfully, and at last he sighed. 

"Yes, " he said wearily, "that's what I want. "

His voice had the flat tones of Cockneydom, but Mary took no note ofit. 

"Then let me show you the way, " she said, still gently; and he roseat the word and followed her upstairs. 

In this manner the new patient was installed in the household of Dr. Pond. He slipped into his place like a shadow, displacing nothing. The Doctor, swollen with the distinction of a visit by Professor Fishin person, would willingly have made a fuss of him, if it had beenpossible. But Smith was not amenable to polite attentions. Toattempts to render him particular consideration he opposed a barreninertia; one could as easily have been obliging to a lamp-post. Theman's consciousness seemed to exist in a vacuum; he lived in asolitude to which the kindly Doctor could never penetrate. Once, certainly, his persistent geniality won him a rebuff. It was atbreakfast, and he was following his custom of endeavoring to trapSmith into conversation. Smith sat opposite him at the table, staringvacantly at the tablecloth. 

"It is a fine morning, " the Doctor observed, "I wonder, now, Mr. Smith, if you would care for a little drive with me. I have somebrief visits to pay here and there, and I could drop you here againbefore I go on. The fresh air would do you good--freshen you up, youknow; put a little life into you. Come, now! what do you say toaccompanying me?"

Smith said nothing, but his cheek twitched once. "Come now!" pressedthe Doctor persuasively. "See what a lovely day it is. Sun, freshair, the smell and sight of the fields--it'll put fresh life intoyou. "

Smith's white face worked slightly. "Ere, " he said, and paused. TheDoctor bent forward, pleased. "Go to 'ell!" said Smith thoughtfully. 

Mary had much more success with him; a slender link of sympathy hadestablished itself between the healthy, tranquil girl and this drearywisp of a man. She asked him no questions, and in return for herforbearance he would sometimes speak to her voluntarily. He wouldemerge from his trance-like apathy to watch her as she went about herhousehold duties. Professor Fish had spoken truly when he said thatMary Pond knew how to create about her an atmosphere of serenity. Thetones of her quiet voice, the gentleness of her movements, the kindlysobriety of her regard seemed to fortify her patient. For her part, agenuine compassion for the little man was mixed with some liking; hewas a furtive and vulgar creature at the best, but his dependence onher, his helplessness and trouble, reached to the maternal in herhonest heart. She could manage him; but for her strategy he wouldhave lived in his bed, day and night, in a sort of half torpor. 

"It's remarkable what a control you have over these low natures, Mary, " Dr. Pond said to her. He had come home one afternoon to findthat she had actually sent Smith out for a walk. "I confess it's acase that's beyond me altogether. There doesn't seem to be any thingto take hold of in the man. It would be better if he felt a littlepain now and again; it would give one an opening, as it were. "

Seated in a low chair in the window, Mary was hemming dusters. Shelooked up at him thoughtfully. 

"Father, " she said, "what do you think was the matter with him in thefirst place? What was the disease that Professor Fish cured?"

Dr. Pond shook his white head vaguely. 

"Impossible to say, " he answered. "It looks like, a mental case, doesn't it? And yet----You see, Fish has had so many specialities. Hewas in practice in Harley Street as a nerve man. Then, next thing, one hears of him in heart surgery. He's had a go at electricitylately. And between you and me--he's a great man, of course--but ifit wasn't for his position and all that, we'd be calling him aquack. "

"Then you can't tell what the disease was?" persisted Mary. 

"No, " said Dr. Pond. "Nor even if there was a disease. For all Iknow, Fish may have been vivisecting him. He wouldn't stop at a thinglike that, if I know anything about him. "

"He ought to have told us, " said Mary. 

"Yes, " agreed the Doctor. "But Fish always does as he likes. How longhas Smith been out now, Mary?"

"He went out at three, " she answered. "And now it's half-past five. He ought to be in. I think I'll put my hat on, father, and go afterhim. "

Dr. Pond nodded. "I would, " he said. 

The road along which Smith had departed ran past the village, andMary walked forth by it to seek her patient. It was a splendid stillafternoon; the trees by the wayside stood motionless in the lateheat, their shadows in jet black twined and laced upon the whiteroad. Far ahead of her she could see the land undulating in easygreen bosoms against the radiant west; the sun was in her face as shewalked. She had no fear that Smith had wandered far; for one thing, he had no strength to do so, and for another, she knew intuitivelythat the man lacked any purpose to carry him away. Therefore shewalked at her ease, keeping cool and comely, and at the first cornerin the road met a slim youth on horseback, who stopped to salute her. It was Harry Wylde, son of the great man of the neighborhood. 

"Afternoon, Miss Pond, " he called cheerfully. "Have you lost a littlething about the size of a pickpocket?"

"A little bigger than that, I think, " she answered. "Have you seenhim, Mr. Wylde?"

"Yes, " said Harry Wylde. "I've seen him before, too, I'll swear. Iknew the little beast at once. I say, Miss Pond, how the dickens didyou manage to get mixed up with him?"

"He's my patient, " said Mary. "Where did you see him, please?"

Harry Wylde pointed down the road. "I passed him just now, " he said. "He was in the churchyard. "

"The churchyard?"

"Yes, sitting on the grass, having no end of a time. Looked as happyas a trout in a sand-bath. I knew him at once. "

"How did you know him?" demanded Mary. 

Harry Wylde leaned forward over his saddle. "Miss Pond, " he saidseriously, "there's hardly a man that goes to races in all Englandthat doesn't know him. His name's Woolley--that's one of his names, anyhow. He was a kind of jockey once, and since then he's been thelowest, meanest little sharper in all the dirty little turf swindlesthat was ever kicked off a racecourse. If I wasn't sure I wouldn'tsay so; but you ought to know whom you are entertaining. "

"But you must be utterly mistaken, " cried Mary. "Professor Fishbrought him to us. It's impossible. "

"Case of Fish and foul, " suggested the youth. "But I'm not mistaken. The man I mean has lost the tip of his ear, the left one. Somebodybit it off, I believe. Now, have you noticed your chap's ear?"

He looked at her acutely, and she colored in hot distress. 

"I see you have, " he said. "I'd ask this Fish person for anexplanation, if I were you; particularly as Woolley is supposed to bedead. The police want him pretty badly, you know. It looks queer, doesn't it?"

"I--I can't understand it, " said Mary. "I'm sure there's a mistakesomewhere. "

Young Wylde nodded. "We'll call it a mistake, " he said. "He wasinjured on the Underground in London and taken to St. Brigid'sHospital, where he died. I remember reading about it. Now, of course, I shan't say anything to anybody; but you ought to have an explanation. Fish--is that his name--seems to have played it pretty low down onyou. " He gathered up his bridle and nodded to her with intent. 

"Good afternoon, Miss Pond, " he said. "Sorry to make trouble, but Icouldn't leave you in the dark about a thing like this. "

Mary walked on to the churchyard in considerable bewilderment. Withthe character of a patient who came under her care she had noparticular concern; a nurse must be as little discriminating asdeath. But she did not like the story; it troubled and offended her--its connexion with matters that interested the police, and all itssuggestion that she and her father were being used as a means ofhiding, touched her with a sense of disgust. It did not occur to herto doubt Harry Wylde; he had been altogether too circumstantial tobe doubted. 

She reached the low wall that separated the churchyard from the road. The old graces, with their tombstones leaning awry, like gapped, uneven teeth, reminded her of her errand, and soon she saw Smith. Hehad found himself a seat where an old tomb with railings and monumentwas overrun with ground ivy; he sat among the coarse green of it, staring before him with his chin propped on one hand. All the gloryof the western sky was beyond him; his profile stood out against itlike a sharp silhouette. Mary stopped to look, and for the timeforgot the wretched story she had just heard. The man was asmotionless as the stone on which he sat-still with such a stillnessas one sees not in the living. But it was not that which held. Marygazing; it came suddenly to her that in his attitude there wassomething apt; and significant, something with a meaning, requiringonly a key to interpret it. She wondered about it, vaguely, andwithout framing words for her thoughts it occurred to her that thestillness, the attitude, the mute surrender that spoke in everycontour of the silhouetted figure, the very posture of rest, bespokecontentment, tile welcome of relief which one feels on reaching one'sown place, one's familiar atmosphere, one's due haven. 

Minutes passed, and still she stood gazing; then, as though restiveunder the impressions that invaded her, she moved forward and enteredthe churchyard. It was not till she stood before him that Smith wasaware of her; with a wrinkling of his brow and a sigh, he came backto his surroundings. Mary saw and noted how the raptness of his facegave way to its usual feebleness as he roused himself. 

"You have been out a long time, nearly three hours, " he said. "Ithink you ought to come in now. "

He sighed again. "All right, " he said slowly. But he did not rise, and Mary did not hurry him. She stood looking down at him, while hisslack lips fidgeted and his pale eyes flitted here and there over theancient graves. 

"Why did you come here to this place?" she asked him presently. Hervoice was very low. 

He hesitated. "It's where I ought to be, " he said heavily. "Only Ididn't have no luck. " One hand went out uncertainly and he pointed tothe graves. "Them chaps is past bothering, " he said. "There's nogettin' at them. "

He shook his head--it was as though he shivered--and relapsed intosilence again. 

"You shouldn't think about things like that, " Mary said. 

He looked up at her almost shrewdly. "Think!" he repeated. "I got noneed to think. I know. "

"Know--what?"

"Ah!" he said, and gat brooding. "I'm alive, I am, " he said, at last;"but I been better off once. There's no way of tellin' it, 'cos itdon't' fit into words. Words wasn't meant to show such things. But Iwasn't just a limpin', squintin' little welsher; I was something thatcould feel the meaning of things and the reason for them, just likeyou can feel 'eat and cold. Could feel and know things such as nobodycan't feel or know till 'e's done with this rotten bustle of livin'and doin' things. That's what I know, Miss; that's what I found outwhen I died in that there 'orspital. "

Mary stared at him; a brief vivacity was in his face as he spoke, atone of certainty in his voice. 

"But, " she cried, "you're alive. "

"Ay, " he said. "I'm alive. That's the doin' of that Fish. He's theman; proddin' and workin' away there in that big room of his with thebottles and machines, and bits of dead men on the tables. 'E thinksI'm a bit touched in the brain, but I know, I do! I remember allright that mornin', with the grey sky showin' over the wire blindsand the noise of the carts just beginnin' in the streets. There wassparkles in my eyes, flashes and colors, you know, and a feelin' asif I was all wet with warm water. I couldn't see at first, but by an'by I put up my 'and and cleared my eyes--all pins and needles, my'and was. Then I got on my elbow, and saw--the room and the bottlesand all, and me naked on a table under a big light. An' against thewall, at the other side o' the room, there was 'im--Fish--in a white-rubber gown and a face like chalk, shakin' an' sweatin' an' starin'at me. His eyes were all big an' flat; an' I lay there an' looked athim, while he bit his lips an' got a hold on himself. At last 'e comeover to me. ''Ow are you feeling?' 'e says. I'd been thinking. 'Youdevil, you've brought me back, ' I shouted. He was shakin' still likea flag in the wind. 'Yes, ' he says, 'unless I'm mad, I've brought youback. ' I 'adn't the strength to do no more than lie still; so I justwatched 'im while 'e got brandy and drank it from the bottle. Oh, Iremember; I remember the whole thing. That Fish can fool you an' oldPond, but there's no foolin' me. I know!"

He leaned forward and spat; the gesture emphasised the harddeliberation of his speech. The look he gave her now was much moreassured than her own. 

"We must be getting back, " Mary said uneasily. She remembered whatProfessor Fish had mentioned of Smith's delusions. But thestrangeness and assurance of what he had said were not in accord withwhat she knew of unstable minds. 

He rose and accompanied her docilely enough, but the strength thathad furnished him with force to speak seemed to last only while hewas in the churchyard. As they went along the quiet road he was againthe flimsy, unlovely shell of a man she had first known. They wentslowly, for Mary accommodated her gait to his; he walked weakly, looking down always. Where the road passed the end of the village afew people turned to look after them with slow curiosity. The villagepoliceman, chin in hand, stared with bovine intensity; his big, simple face was clenched in careful observation. Mary recalled HarryWylde's story, and his warning that the authorities had been seekingfor Smith; she quickened her pace a little to get out of that mildpublicity. 

"What were you before you--before you met Professor Fish?" she askedhim suddenly. 

"A bettin' tout, " he answered, "and a thief. " He spoke absently andwith complete composure. 

"Well, " said Mary, "will you do something for me if I ask you?"

He looked aside at her. "Don't ask, " he said. "Don't ask me to doanything. 'Cos I can't. "

"It's only this, " said Mary. "What you told me in the churchyard wasvery wonderful and dreadful; but even if it was true, it would be abad thing for you to think much about. It couldn't help you to live;it could only come between you and being well. So I want you, as faras you can, not to think about it. Try to forget it. Will you?"

He made some inarticulate sound with his lips. "Did Fish warn you?"he asked. "Did he tell you I was crazy and had notions? Ah!" heexclaimed, "I can see he did. He's as cunning as a fox, he is. He'sgot me tied hand and foot!"

"Hush! Don't talk like that!" bade Mary. "Do as I ask you. You knowI'm your friend. Don't you?"

He shrugged uncertainly. "You would be if you knew how, " he saidslowly. "But, Lord! you don't know nothing that matters. It's only usthat knows what's what--only us. "

"Who's us?" asked Mary involuntarily. 

He looked full at her. "The dead, " he answered, and after that theywent on in silence. 

It was not easy for Mary to marshal her thoughts that evening, whenSmith, after a silent meal, had gone to bed, and left her alone withher father. He had spoken with such an effect of intensity that theimpression of it persisted in her memory like the pain that remainsfrom a blow; the figure of him, sitting on the grave, telling hisstrange story in words of impressive simplicity, haunted herobstinately. She could see easily the picture he had conjured for herof a big electric-lighted room, silent save for remote noises fromwithout, and its equipment of dissecting-tables, bottles, and themachinery of an anatomist. Wylde's story had sunk into the backgroundof her concerns; yet it was of that she had to speak to her father, and she was glad rather than surprised when he made an opening forher himself. 

"Smith seems to be rather a mystery at the village, " he remarked. "That manner of his is causing talk. " He laughed gently. "White--youknow Ephraim White, the policeman--he asked me what I knew abouthim. "

"Yes?" said Mary. "Well, young Mr. Wylde asked me the same thing. Hewas sure he had recognized him. "

"Ah! And who was he supposed to be?"

Mary told him what Harry Wylde had said to her in the afternoon, notomitting the mention of the mutilated ear. Dr. Pond heard it withoutdisturbance, nodding thoughtfully as she spoke. 

"Ye-es, " he said. "It's curious. It would explain the delusions, youknow. Smith, bearing a marked resemblance to somebody who is dead--aresemblance that even extends to a certain wound--identifies himselfwith that person. A rather dramatic position, isn't it? Still, I hopewe are not going to have a police inquiry. I shall certainly let Fishknow that people are becoming suspicious. What did young Wylde saythe other man's name was?"

"Woolley, " answered Mary. "Then you will write to Professor Fish, father?"

"Yes, " said the Doctor; "He ought to know. I'll write to-night. "

"I think I would, " agreed Mary thoughtfully, and rose to get himwriting materials. But some inward function of her was uneasy; shefelt as though she had failed the little man whose reliance was inher. "You know I'm your friend, " she had said to him, and thisreference to the Professor had not the flavor of full friendship. Thesame compunction remained with her next morning, and made herspecially gentle with Smith. He had fallen back to his usualcondition of vacuity and inertia; she had to rouse him to eat anddrink when he sat at table with a face as void of life as a death-mask, and eyes empty and unseeing. Dr. Pond had given up his attemptsto make conversation with him, and saw him with a slight exasperationwhich he was sedulous to conceal, so that he was altogether dependenton Mary's unfailing patience. 

Professor Fish was not slow to reply to the letter. A telegram fromhim arrived at lunch time, stating that he would come down next day, and asking that his train might be met. 

"That means you'll have to go again, Mary, " said Dr. Pond. "I've anappointment at that very hour. "

Mary nodded, not displeased at having an opportunity of sounding theProfessor before anybody else. She saw that Smith had looked up atthe mention of Fish's name with some quickening of interest. Shesmiled to him and helped him to salad. 

The morning of the next day came in squally and wild, with starts ofrain, a sharp interruption to the summer's tranquillity. Mary wasrather troubled to dispose of Smith during her absence, but ensconcedhim at last in the room which was known as "the study, " an upperchamber where Dr. Pond kept his books and those other possessionswhich were not in frequent use. Here was a window giving a view overthe rain-blurred hedgerows, clear to the swell of the downs, and anarm-chair in which Smith could sit in peace and wear undisturbed hissemblance of a man in a trance. With some notion of leaving nothingundone, Mary routed out for him a bundle of old illustratedmagazines, and left them on the unused writing-table at his side; hedid not glance at them. 

"Now, " she said, when all was done, "I must go. I shall be back soon. Shake hands with me and say thank you. "

She smiled down into his face, as he looked slowly up at her, huddledlike a lay figure between the arms of the big chair. 

"Yes?" she said encouragingly, for his lips had moved. 

"I feel, " he said in a whisper----

"Yes, " urged Mary. "What?"

"Hope!" he said, aloud, and gave her his hand. 

The cab of the village bore her to the station over roads tearfulwith rain, and arrived there just as the London train came to a stop. The tall figure of Professor Fish, jumping from his compartment andturning to slam the door vehemently, struck her as oddly familiar;the man's personality stood in high relief from his surroundings. Yetthere was a certain disturbance in his manner as he greeted her--atouch of the confidential, which added to her curiosity. He satopposite to her in the cab, so that when he leaned forward to speak, with his hat pushed impatiently back, his big insistent face wasthrust forward close to hers, and his great shoulders humped asthough in effort. 

"This is a very annoying thing, Miss Pond, " he began, as the cabstarted back along the tree-bordered road. "A most annoying thing;privacy was absolutely essential. Here is something done, a bigthing, too; and when only privacy, reticence, quiet are essential, wehave this infernal fuss on our hands. "

He spoke with all his habitual force and volume; but something in himsuggested to Mary that he did so consciously and of purpose. 

"Well, " she said; "there's nobody about here that is likely to guessat your experiment. That isn't the trouble, you know. The trouble isthat people say they recognize Mr. Smith as a man who is wanted bythe police, who is supposed, too, to be dead. So, you see, the onlything wanted is an explanation. "

"Explanation!" He put the word from him with a gesture of his big, smooth hands. 

Mary nodded, scanning him coolly. "Yes, " she said; "I can understandthat an explanation might be difficult. "

Professor Fish laughed shortly, a mere bark of sour mirth, and turnedto look through the rain-splashed window of the cab. 

"Difficult!" he repeated, and turned his face to her again. "Not atall difficult, my dear Miss Pond, but awkward. Lord! it wouldn't doat all!" His eyes behind his glasses became keen and lively. Helooked at her carefully. 

"He's talked to you, eh? You've heard his story?"

"Yes, " answered Mary. "Once; it was very wonderful. "

He nodded, still scrutinising her. "I wish I could make him talk, " hesaid thoughtfully. "However----" he shrugged his big shoulders and wassilent. 

There was a pause then, while the wheels squelched through the mudbelow, and the rain beat rhythmically on the windows and roof of thecab. Its noise seemed to ally itself to the interior smell of thevehicle, an odor of damp leather and stale straw and ancient stables. The Professor stared intently through the wet glass, and Maryremembered, with a touch of amusement, her first meeting with him, when she had sat beside him and occupied her thoughts with the flabbyphantom of Smith. 

"You know, " she said, at length, "there'll have to be some sort ofexplanation. "

"Well?" demanded the Professor. 

"If I knew what you had done to Mr. Smith, " she went on, "I couldhelp you to keep things as quiet as possible. "

He heard her with a frown and shook his head. "If you knew, you'd doanything but keep it quiet, " he answered shortly. 

"Then it was something horrible?" asked Mary quickly. 

He smiled. "I expect to have many patients for the same treatment, "he replied. "Very many; I expect half the world. Where is Smith now?"he asked abruptly. 

"At home by himself, " replied Mary. "We'll be there in two minutes. You'd like to see him first?"

"Yes, please, " he said. "I must have a word or two with him. "

Dr Pond had not returned when they drew up at the house, and, as soonas the Professor had rid himself of his ulster and hat, she led himupstairs to the "study. "

"You'll find him in here, " she said, when they came to the door. "Ishall be downstairs when you want me. "

The Professor nodded absently and turned the handle. Mary was at thetop of the stairs when he entered. She turned even before he criedout, conscious of something happening. 

"Stop!" cried the Professor sharply. "Put that down!"

Mary ran to the open door and uttered a cry. Near the window stoodSmith, erect and buoyant. The contents of desk-drawers were litteredon the floor--papers, old pipes, a corkscrew, various rubbish--and inhis hand he held something that Mary recognized with a catch of thebreath. 

"Father's old pistol!" she said, and shuddered. The Professor hadadvanced as far as the middle of the room; the desk was between himand Smith, who was looking at him with a smile. Even in the weaknessof fear that came over her, Mary wondered at the change in him. Hisvery stature seemed to be greater; there was a grave power in thatface she knew as a mask of witlessness and futility. He held therevolver in his right hand with the barrel resting in his left, andlooked at the tall Professor with a smile that had no mirth in it, but something like compassion. 

"Drop it!" said the Professor again. "Drop it, you fool!" But hisvoice of authority cracked, and he cried out: "For God's sake don'tmake a mess of it now. "

Smith continued to look at him with that ghost of a smile on hislips, and answered with slow words. He patted the pistol. 

"This'll put me out of your reach, " he said. "This is what'll do it. You won't be able to patch up the hole this'll make. "

He raised the pistol, Mary, powerless to move clenched her hands andwhole being for the shock of imminent tragedy. 

"Wait!" cried the Professor, and cast a furtive deprecating glanceback at Mary. "Wait! I tell you it's no use; you can hurt yourselfand disfigure yourself and weaken and impair your body, but not thelife! Not the life! I tell you--it's no good!" He flung out a longarm and his great forefinger pointed at Smith imperatively. "I'llhave you back, " he said. "I'll have you back. You're mine, my man;and I'll hold you. Put that pistol down; put it down, I tell you! Orelse----" his arm dropped, and the command failed from his voice. Hespoke in the tones of tired indifference. "Do it, " he said. "Shootyourself, if you want to. I'll deal with you afterwards. "

There was a pause, measured in heart-beats. Smith showed yet his faceof serene gravity. When he spoke, it was strange to hear the voice ofthe back-streets, the gutter's phrase, expressing that quietassurance. 

"If it wasn't you, " he said, "it wouldn't be nobody else. It's onlyyou as can do it. " He paused, with lips pursed in deliberation. "Ifyou knowed what I know, " he went on, "you'd see it wasn't right. Ireckon you'll have to come too. "

"Eh?" The Professor looked up quickly, and threw up an arm as thoughto guard a blow. Mary screamed, and the noise of the shot startledher from her posture and she fell on her knees. The Professor tookone pace forward, turned sharply, and fell full length on his face. She heard Smith say something, but the words passed herundistinguished; then the second shot sounded, and the fire-ironsclattered as he tumbled among them. 

Those that ran up to the room upon the sound of the shooting foundher kneeling in the door with her hand over her face. 

"Bury them! bury them!" she was crying. "Bury them and let them go!"

XIV

THE CAPTAIN'S ARM

Seafaring men knew it for a chief characteristic of Captain Price--his quiet, unresting watchfulness. Forty years of sun and brine hadbunched the puckers at the corners of his eyes and hardened the linesof his big brown face; but the outstanding thing about him was stillthat silent wariness, as of a man who had warning of somethingimpending. It went a little strangely with his figure of a massive, steel-and-hickory shipmaster, soaked to the soul with the routine ofhis calling. It seemed to give token of some faculty held in reserve, to hint at an inner life, as it were; and not a few of the frank andsimple men who went to sea with him found it disconcerting. Captainswho could handle a big steamship as a cyclist manages a bicycle theyhad seen before; they recognized in him the supreme skill, the salt-pickled nerve, the iron endurance of a proven sailor; but there theirexperience ended and the depths began. 

Sooner or later, most of them went to the Burdock's chief mate for anexplanation of the unknown quality. "What makes your father act so?"was a common form of the question. Arthur Price would smile and shakehis handsome head. 

"It's not acting, " he would say. "You drop off to sleep some night onthis bridge, and you'll find out what he's after. He's after you ifyou don't keep your weather eye liftin'; and don't you forget it!"

In those days the Burdock had a standing charter from Cardiff toBarcelona and back with ore to Swansea, a comfortable round tripwhich brought the Captain and his son home for one week in every six. 

It suited the mate's convenience excellently, for he was a man ofsocial habits, and he had at last succeeded in interesting MissMinnie Davis in his movements. She was the daughter of the Burdock'sowner, and Arthur Price's cousin in some remote degree, a plump, clean, clever Welsh girl, of quick intelligence and pleasant goodnature. He was a tall young man, a little leggy in his way, whofilled the eye splendidly. Women said of him that he "looked everyinch a sailor"; matrons who watched his progress with Minnie Davisconsidered that they would make a handsome couple. Captain Price, forall his watchfulness, saw nothing of the affair. He approved ofMinnie, though; she was born to a share in that life in which shipsare breadwinners, and never had to be shoo'd out of the way ofhauling or hoisting gear when she came down aboard the Burdock indock. Her way was straight across the deck to the poop ladder andfor'ard to the chart-house along the fore-and-aft bridge, trim, quiet-footed, familiar. "What did you find in the Bay?" she wouldask, as she shook hands with Captain Price; and he would answer as toone who understood: "It was piling up a bit from the sou'west;" or"smooth enough to skate on, " as the case might be. Then, withoutfurther formality, he would return to his papers, and Arthur Pricewould hand over his work to the third mate and wash his hands beforecoming up to make himself agreeable. He always had more to say aboutthe trip than his father, and he was prone to translate the weatherinto shore speech. Minnie only half liked his fashion of talking of"storms" and "tempests"; but there was plenty else in him she likedwell enough. Best of all, perhaps, she liked the sight of him--a headtaller than his father, clean-shaven and accurately groomed, smilingreadily and moving easily; he was a capital picture. 

She fell into a way of driving down to see the Burdock off. It wasthus that Captain Price learned how matters stood. He came straightfrom the office to the ship, on a brisk July day and went off to herat her buoys in the mud-pilot's boat. All was clear for a start andthe lock was waiting; Arthur Price, in the gold-laced cap he used asdue to his rank, was standing by to cast off. The Captain wentforthwith to the bridge; Minnie on the dock-head could see his blackshore-hat over the weather-cloths and his white collar of ceremony. She smiled a little, for she did not know quite enough to see the artwith which the Captain drew off from his moorings under his own steam, nor his splendid handling of the big boat as he bustled her down thecrowded dock and laid her blunt nose cleanly between the piers of thelock. She was watching the brass-buttoned chief mate lording it onthe fo'c'sle head, as he passed the lines to haul into the lock. 

Captain Price was watching him, too. He saw him smiling and talkingover the rail to the girl. 

"Slack off that spring, " he roared suddenly, as they began to let theship down to the sea level; and the mate jumped for the coil on thebitts. 

"Keep your eyes about you, for'ard there, " ordered the Captaintersely. 

"Aye, aye, sir, " sang out the mate cheerfully. 

The mud pilot, beside the Captain on the bridge, grinned agreeably. 

"Arthur's got an eye in his head, indeed, " he remarked, and liftedhis cap to Minnie. 

The Captain snorted, and gave his whole attention to hauling out, only turning his head at the last minute to wave a farewell to hisowner's daughter. The mud pilot took charge and brought her clear;and as soon as he had gone over to his boat, the Captain rang forfull steam ahead and waited for the mate to take the bridge. 

The young man came up smiling. "It's a fine morning, father, " heremarked, as he walked over to the binnacle. 

"Mister Mate, " said the Captain harshly, "you all but lost me thathawser. "

"Just in time, wasn't it?" replied the mate pleasantly. 

"I don't reckon to slack off and take in my lines myself, " went onthe Captain. "I reckon to leave that to my officers. And if anofficer carries; away a five-inch manila through makin' eyes at girlson the pier-head, I dock his wages for the cost of it, and I log himfor neglectin' his duty. "

The mate looked: at him sharply for a moment; the Captain scowledback. 

"Have you got anything to say to me?" demanded the Captain. 

"Yes, " said the mate, "I have. " He broke into a smile. "But it'ssomething I can't say while you're actin' the man-o'-war captain onyour bridge. It doesn't concern the work o' the ship. "

"What does it concern?" asked the Captain. 

"Me, " said the mate. He folded his arms across the binnacle andlooked into his father's face confidently. The Captain softened. 

"Well, Arthur?" he said. 

"That was Minnie on the pier-head, " said the mate. The Captainnodded. "I was up at their place last night, " the young mancontinued, "and we had a talk--she and I--and so it came about thatwe fixed things between us. Mr. Davis is agreeable, so long-----"

"Hey, what's this?" The Captain stared at his son amazedly. "What wasit you fixed up with Minnie?"

"Why, to get married, " replied the mate, reddening. "I was tellingyou. Her father's willing, as long as we wait till I get a commandbefore we splice. "

"You to marry Minnie!" The mate stiffened at the emphasis on the"you. " The Captain was fighting for expression. "Why, " he said, "why--why, you'ld 'a' carried away that hawser if I hadn't sung out atye. "

"Father, " said the mate. "Mr. Davis'll give me a ship. "

"What ship?" demanded the Captain. 

"The first he can, " replied the other. "He's thinkin' of buyin' theStormberg, Wrench Wylie's big freighter, and he'd shift you on toher. Then I'd have the Burdock. "

"Then you'd have the Burdock!" The Captain leaned his elbow on theengine-room telegraph and faced his son. His expression was whollycompounded of perplexity and surprise. He let his eyes wander aft, along the big ship's trim perspective to the short poop, and forwardto where her bluff bows sawed at the skyline. 

"She's a fine old boat, " he said at last, and stood up with a sigh. "but she needs watching. " The mate felt a thrill of relief. "I'llwatch her, " he said comfortably. "But don't you want to wish me luck, father?"

"Not luck, " said the Captain; "not luck, my boy. You run her to ahair and keep your eyes slit and you won't want luck. Luck's alubber's standby. But Minnie's a fine girl. " He shook his headthoughtfully. "She'll rouse you up, maybe. "

The mate laughed, and at the sound of it the Captain frowned again. 

"Now, lean off that binnacle, " he said shortly. "I want to get thebearings. "

It was not till an hour later that he went to his cabin to shed hisshore-going gear for ordinary apparel; and as soon as this was donehe reached down the register from the book-shelf over his bunk tolook up the Stormberg. 

"H'm, " he growled, standing over the book at his desk. "Built in 1889on the Clyde. I know her style. Five thousand tons, and touch thesteam steering-gear if you dare! Blast her, and blast Davis for ajunk-buying fool!"

He closed the book with a slam and glanced mechanically up at thetell-tale compass that hung over his bed. 

"There's Arthur half a point off already, " he said, and made for thebridge. 

Arthur Price believed honestly that more was exacted from him thanfrom other chief mates; and early in that passage he concluded thatthe Old Man was severer than ever. The Burdock butted into a summergale before she was clear of the Bristol Channel, a free wind thatcame from the south-west driving a biggish sea before it. It wasnothing to give real trouble, but Captain Price took charge in thedog watch and set the mate and his men to making all fast aboutdecks. With his sou'wester flapped back from his forehead and hisoilskin coat shrouding him to the heels, he leaned on the bridgerail, vociferous and imperative, and his harsh voice hunted theworkers from one task to another. He had lashings on the anchors andfresh wedges to the battens of all hatches; the winches chocked offand covered over and new pins in the davit blocks. This took time, but when it was done he was not yet satisfied; the mate had to getout gear and rig a couple of preventer funnel stays. The men lookedahead at the weather and wondered what the skipper saw in it to makesuch a bother; the second and third mates winked at one anotherbehind Arthur Price's back; and he, the chief mate, sulked. 

"That's all, I suppose?" he asked the Captain when he got on thebridge again at last. 

"No, " was the sharp answer. "It's not all. Speak the engine-room andask the chief how he's hitting it. "

"All sweet, " reported the mate as he hung up the speaking tube. 

"That's right, " said the Captain. "You always want to know that, Mister Mate. And the lights?"

"All bright, sir, " said the mate. 

"Then you can go down and get something to eat, " said the Captain. "And see that the hand wheel's clear as you go. "

It breezed up that night, and as the Burdock cleared the tail ofCornwall, the heavy Atlantic water came aboard. She was a sound ship, though, and Captain Price knew her as he knew the palms of his hands. Screened behind the high weather-cloths, he drove her into it, whilethe tall seas filled her forward main deck rail-deep and her bowspounded away in a mast-high smother of spray. From the binnacleamidships to the weather wing of the bridge was his dominion, whilethe watch officer straddled down to leeward; both with eyes boring atthe darkness ahead and on either beam, where there came and went thepin-point lights of ships. 

Arthur Price relieved the bridge at midnight, but the Captain heldon. 

"Ye see how she takes it?" he bawled down the wind to his son. "Noexcuse for steaming wide; ye can drive her to a hair. Keep your eyeson that light to port; we don't want anything bumping into us. "

"You wouldn't ease her a bit, then?" shouted the mate, the windsnatching his words. 

"Ease her!" was the reply. "You'd have her edging into France. She'lllie her course while we drive her. "

When dawn came up the sea had mounted; the Bay was going to be trueto its name. Captain Price went to his chart-house at midnight, tosleep on a settle; but by his orders the Burdock was kept to hercourse and her gait, battering away at the gale contentedly. 

After breakfast, he took another look round and then went below torest in his bunk, while the tell-tale swam in wild eccentrics abovehis upturned face. After a while he dozed off to sleep, lulled by theclick of furnishings that rendered to the ship's roll, the drum ofthe seas on her plates, and the swish of loose water across the deck. 

He was roused by his steward. That menial laid a hand on his shoulderand he was forthwith awake and competent. 

"A ship to windward, sir, showin' flags, " said the steward. "The mate'ud be glad if you'd go to the bridge. "

"A' right, " said the Captain, and stood up. "In distress, eh?"

"By the looks of her, sir, " admitted the steward, who had been awaiter ashore. "She seems to be a mast or two short, sir, so far as Ican tell. But I couldn't be sure. "

He helped the Captain into his oilskins deftly, pulling his jacketdown under the long coat, and held the door open for him. 

Some three miles to windward the stranger lay, an appealing vagabond. The Captain found his son standing on the flag-chest, braced againsta stanchion, watching her through a pair of glasses, when she peepedup, a momentary silhouette, over the tall seas. He turned as theCaptain approached. 

"Can't make out her flags, sir, " he said. "Too much wind. Looks likea barque with only her mizzen standing. "

"Gimme the glass, " said the Captain, climbing up beside him. Hebraced himself against the irons and took a look at her, swingingaccurately to the roll of the ship. Beneath him the wind-whippedwater tumbled in grey leagues; the stranger seemed poised on the rimof it. From her gaff, a dot of a flag showed a blur against the sky, and a string from her mast-head was equally vague. 

"That'll be her ensign upside down at the gaff, " he said. "Port yourhelm there; we'll go down and look at her. "

"Aye, aye, sir. " The mate passed the word and came over. "How wouldit be to see one of the boats clear, father!"

"Aren't the boats clear?" demanded the Captain. 

"Oh yes, they're clear, " replied the mate. "You had us put new pinsin the blocks, you know. " He met his father's steady eye defiantly. "When are a steamer's boats ever clear for hoisting out?" he asked. 

"Always, when the mate's fit for his job, " was the answer. "Go andmake sure of the starboard lifeboat, and call the watch. "

The Captain took his ship round to windward of the distressed vessel, running astern of her within a quarter of a mile. She proved to bethe remains of a barque, as the mate had guessed, a deep-laden woodenship badly swept by the sea. From the wing of the bridge theCaptain's glasses showed him the length of her deck, cluttered withthe wreck of houses torn up by the roots, while the fall of the sparshad taken her starboard bulwarks with it. Her boats were gone; adavit stuck up at the end of the poop crumpled like a ram's horn; andby the taffrail her worn and sodden crew clustered and cheered theBurdock. 

The Captain rang off his engines and rang again to stand by in theengine-room. The mate came up the ladder to him while his hand wasyet at the telegraph. 

"Lifeboat's all clear for lowering, sir, " he said. "Noble, Peters, Hansen, and Kyland are to go in her. " He waited. 

The old captain stood looking at the wreck, while the steamshiprolled tumultuously in the trough. 

"Who goes in charge?" he asked, after a minute's silence. 

"I'll go, father, " said the mate eagerly. He paused, but the Captainsaid nothing. 

"You know, " proceeded the mate, "father, you do know there's none of'em here can handle a boat like me. "

"Aye, " said the Captain, "you can do it. " He looked at his sonkeenly. "It 'ud make a good yarn to spin to Minnie, " he said, with anunwilling smile. 

The mate laughed agreeably. "Dear Minnie, " he said. "Then I'll go, father. "

"And I'll just see to the hoisting out of that boat, " said theCaptain. "Good thing I had you put in the new pins. "

The third mate on the bridge rang for steam and made a lee for thelowering of the lifeboat, the hands put a strain on the tackles, andthe carpenter and bo'sun went to work to knock out the chocks onwhich she rested. Her steel-shod keel had rusted into them. 

"Hoist away on your forward tackle, " ordered the Captain. "Belay!Make fast! Now get a hold of this guy. Lively there, you men. Noble, aloft on the booms and shoulder her over. "

She canted clear of the groove in the chocks as they swung theforward davit out and the Captain stepped abaft the men who hauled. 

"Lively now, " he called. "Don't keep those chaps waiting, men. Afterdavit tackle, haul! Up with her. "

The bo'sun, stooping, looped the fall of the tackle into the snatch-block; the men, under the Captain's eye, tumbled to and gave way, holding the weight gallantly as the rail swung down and putting theirbacks into the pull as she rolled back. 

"Up with her!" shouted the Captain, and she tore loose from her bed. "Vast hauling! Belay! Now out with the davit, men. "

He stepped a pace forward as they passed out the line. "Haul away, "he was saying, when the bo'sun shouted hoarsely and tried to reachhim with a dash across the slippery deck planks. The mate screamed, the Captain humped his shoulders for the blow. It all happened in aflash of disaster; the boat's weight pulled the pin from the cheeksof the block and down she came, her stern thudding thickly into thedeck, while the Captain, limp and senseless, rolled inertly to thescuppers. 

When he came to he was in his bunk. He opened his eyes with a shiverupon the familiar cabin, with its atmosphere of compact neatness, itsgleaming paint and bright-work. A throb of brutal pain in his headwrung a grunt from him, and then he realized that something was wrongwith his right arm. He tried to move it, to bring it above thebedclothes to look at it, and the effort surprised an oath from him, and left him dizzy and shaking. The white jacket of the steward camethrough a mist that was about him. 

"Better, I hope, sir?" the steward was saying. "Beggin' your pardon, but you'd better lie still, sir. Is there anything I could bring you, sir?"

"Did the boat fall on me?" asked the Captain, carefully. His voiceseemed thin to himself. 

"Not on you, sir, " replied the steward. "Not so to speak, on top ofyou. The keel 'it you on the shoulder, sir, an' you contracted athump on the 'ead. "

"And the wreck?" asked the Captain. 

"The wreck's crew is aboard, sir; barque Vavasour, of London, sir. The mate brought 'em off most gallantly, sir. I was to tell 'im whenyou come to, sir. "

"Tell him, then, " said the Captain, and closed his eyes wearily. Thepain in his head blurred his thoughts, but his lifelong habit ofwaking from sleep to full consciousness, with no twilight of muddledfaculties intervening, held good yet. He remembered, now, the newpins in the blocks, and there was even a tincture of amusement in hisreflections. A soft tread beside him made him open his eyes. 

"Well, Arthur, " he said. 

The tall young mate was beside him. 

"Ah, father, " he said cheerfully. "Picking up a bit, eh? That's good. Ugly accident, that. "

"Yes, " replied the Captain, looking up into his face. "Block split, Isuppose?"

"Yes, " said the mate. "That's it. How do you feel?"

"You didn't notice the block, I suppose, when you put the new pinsin?" asked the Captain. 

"Can't say I did, " answered the mate, "or I'd have changed it. You'renot going to blame me surely, father?"

The Captain smiled. "No, Arthur, I'm not going to blame you, " hesaid. "I want to hear how you brought off that barque's crew. Is it agood yarn for Minnie?"

At Barcelona the Captain went to hospital and they took off his rightarm at the shoulder. The Burdock went back without him, and he lay inhis bed wondering how it was that the loss of an arm should make aman feel lonely. 

He was quickly about again. His body was clean from the bone out, clean and hard, and he had never been ill. When the time came to takea walk, he arrayed himself in shore-going black. It cost him aninfinity of trouble and more than an hour of the morning to dresshimself with one hand, but he would not have help. Then it was thathe discovered a strange thing; it was his right arm, the arm that wasgone, that hindered him. The scars of the amputation had healed, butunless he bore the fact deliberately in mind, he felt the arm to bethere. He tried to button his braces with it, to knot his tie, tolace his boots, and had to overtake the impulse and correct it withan effort. When his clothes were on, he put his right hand in histrousers pocket, then remembered that it was not there, and withdrewhastily the hand he had not got. During the walk the same troubleremained with him; it muddled him when he bought tobacco and tried topick up the change. Before he slept that night, he dropped on hisknees at his bedside, and folded the left hand of flesh against theright hand of dreamstuff in prayer. 

When his time came to go home in the Burdock, he was an altered man. The quiet, all-observant scrutiny had gone, and the officers whogreeted him as he came up the accommodation ladder saw it at once. Arthur Price was now in command, a breezy, good-looking captain inblue serge and gold braid. 

"You've got her, then, Arthur?" said the old man, as he reached thedeck and stood looking about him. 

"Yes, I've got her, " answered his son. "That your kit, father? Sewell(to the chief mate), send a couple of hands to get that dunnageaboard. Come along below, father. "

He tucked his arm into his father's and led him down. Mildly takingstock of the well-remembered surroundings, the old man noticed he wasbeing taken to the Captain's state-room, and an impulse of gratitudemoved him. But he was glad he did not speak of it when his son putaside the curtains at the door for him, and he saw that this was notto be his room. New chintzes took the place of his old leathercushions; a big photograph of Minnie stood on the lid of thechronometer case, and the broken-backed Admiralty guides, oceandirectories and the rest were reinforced by a brigade of smartlybound novels. 

"Sit down, " said Arthur, "and make yourself at home till they getyour dunnage in. I've put you in the spare cabin in the portalleyway; you'll find it nice and quiet there. How are you feeling, father? Would you care for a drink?"

"Yes, I'd like a tot, " replied the old man. "Shall I ring for yoursteward?"

"Don't you trouble, " said Arthur. "I've got it here. " It was in thecupboard under the chronometer, a whole case of whisky. "I carry myown, " explained the mate; "I don't believe in old Davis's taste inwhisky. Help yourself, father. "

"How is Minnie?" asked the old man as he set down his glass. 

"She's all right, " was the reply. "I wanted to tell you about that. We go into dry dock when we get back from this trip, and Minnie andI'll get married before I take her out again. Quick work, isn't it?"

The old Captain nodded; the young Captain smiled. 

"You'll be bringing Minnie out for the trip, I suppose?" asked theelder. 

"That's my idea, " agreed Arthur. 

"You're a lucky chap, " said the old man slowly. He hesitated. "You'vegot your ship in hand, eh, Arthur?"

"I've got her down to a fine point, " said Arthur emphatically. "Youneedn't bother about me, father. I know my job, and I don't need moreteaching. I wish you'd get to understand that. You know Davis hasbought the Stormberg?"

"I didn't know, " said the old man with a sigh. "It don't matter tome, anyhow. I'd be reaching for the engine telegraph with my righthand as like as not. No, Arthur, I've done. I'll bother youngofficers no more. "

The run home was an easy one, but it confirmed old Captain Price inhis resolution to have done with the sea. Two or three times he fellabout decks; a small roll, the commonplace movement of a well-drivensteamship in a seaway shook him from his balance, and that missingarm, which always seemed to be there, let him down. He would reachfor a stanchion with it to steady himself, and none of his fallsserved to cure him of the persistent delusion that he was not acripple. He tried to pick things up with it, and let glasses and thelike fall every day. The officers and engineers, men who had sailedwith him at his ablest, saw his weakness quickly, and, with the readytact that comes to efficient seafarers, never showed by increaseddeference or any sign that they were conscious of the change. It wasonly Arthur who went aside to make things easy for him, to cut hisfood for him at table, and so forth. 

From Swansea he went home by train; Minnie and her kindly old fathermet him and made much of him. Old Davis was a man who had built uphis own fortune, scraping tonnage together bit by bit, from the timewhen, as a captain, he had salved a crazy derelict and had her turnedover to him by the underwriters in quittance of his claims. Now heowned a little fleet of good steamships of respectable burthen, andwas an esteemed owner. He did not press the Stormberg on CaptainPrice. The two old men understood each other. 

"I don't want her, " Captain Price told him. "There's a time fornursin' tender engines and a time for scrappin' them. I'm for thescrap heap, David. I'm not the man I was. I don't put faith in myselfno more. It's Arthur's turn now. "

David Davis nodded. "Yes, then. Well, well, now! It's a pity, too, John. But you know what's best, to be sure. I don't want you to gowithout a ship while I've got a bottom afloat, but I don't want youto put the Stormberg to roost on the rocks of Lundy neither. So youwouldn't put faith in yourself no more!"

"No, " said Captain Price, frowning reflectively "I wouldn't, andthat's the truth. " He was seated in a plush-covered arm-chair inDavis's parlour, and now he leaned forward. "It's this arm of mine. It isn't there, but I can't get rid of the feeling of it. I'm alwaysreachin' for things with it. I'd be reachin' for the telegraph in ahurry, I make no doubt. "

"That's funny, " said Davis, in sympathy. "Well, then, you just stopvisiting with me. I've no mind to be alone in the house when yourArthur's gone off with my Minnie. He'll push the Burdock back an'fore for us, and we'll sit ashore like gentlemen. He makes a goodfigure of a skipper, don't he, John?"

Old Captain Price sighed. "Aye, he looks well on the bridge, " hesaid. "I hope he'll watch the ship, though; she's a big old tub tohandle. "

He saw the Burdock into dry dock and strolled down each day to lookat her. Minnie and Arthur were busy with preparations for thewedding. But the girl found time to go down once with the old man, and he took her into the dock under the steamship. 

"A big thing she looks from here, " he said, half to himself. 

The girl looked forward. Over them the bottom plates of the Burdockmade a great sloping roof; her rolling chocks stood out likegalleries. Her lines bulged heavily out, and the girl saw theimmensity of the great fabric, the power of the tool her husbandshould wield. 

"She's big, indeed, " she answered. "Five thousand tons and fortylives in one man's hands. It's splendid, uncle. And Arthur, " hervoice softened pleasantly, "is the man. "

The old Captain wheeled on her sharply. "Tons and lives!" he cried. "Tons and lives be damned! It's not for them she's been run to athumb-span and tended like a sick baby. It's for the clean honesty ofit, to do a captain's work like a wise captain and not soil a record. D'ye think I stump my bridge for forty-eight hours on end because ofthe underwriters and the deck hands? Not me, my girl, not me! It's mytrade to lay her sweetly in Barcelona bay, and it's my honor to knowmy work and do it. "

He seemed to shrug his shoulder. The girl could not know it was hisright hand he flung up to the scarred steel plates above him. 

"There's your Burdock, " he said. "She's your dividend-grinder; she'smy ship. And if I'd thought of no more than your five thousand tonsand your forty lives, she'd not be where she is. "

He held out his left hand, palm uppermost, and started and blinkedwhen there came no smack of the right fist descending into it. 

"There's me talking again, " he said. "Never mind, Minnie dear, it'sonly your old uncle. Let's be back up town. "

The wedding day was a Thursday. The ceremony was to take place in thechapel of which David Davis was a member; the subsequent festivitieswere arranged for at an hotel. It wag to be a notable affair, anepochmaker in the local shipping world, and when all was over therewould be time for the newly-wedded to go aboard the Burdock and takeher out on the tide. Old Captain Price, decorous in stiff black, drove to the church with his son in a two-horse brougham. Neitherspoke a word till they were close to the chapel door. Then the oldman burst out suddenly. 

"For God's sake, Arthur boy, do the right thing by your ship. "

Arthur Price was a little moved. "I will, father, " he said. "Here'smy hand on it. " There was a pause. "Why don't you take my hand, father?" he asked. 

"Eh?" The old man started. "I thought I'd took it, Arthur. I'll begoing soft next. Here's the other hand for you. "

The reception at the hotel and the breakfast there were notableaffairs. Everybody who counted for anything with the hosts werethere, and after a little preliminary formality and awkwardness thefunction grew to animation. The shipping folk of Cardiff knowchampagne less as a beverage than as a symbol, and there was plentyof it. Serious men became frivolous; David Davis made a speech inWelsh; Minnie glowed and blossomed; Arthur was everybody's friend. The old Captain, seated at the bottom of the table with an iron-cladmatron on one side and a bored reporter on the other, watched himwith a groan. The man who was to take the Burdock out of dock wasdrinking. Even one glass at such a time would have breached the oldman's code; it was a crime against shipmastership. But Arthur, withhis bride beside him, her brown eyes alight, her shoulder against hisshoulder, had gone much further than the one glass. The exhilarationof the day dazzled him; a waiter with a bottle to refill his glasswas ever at his shoulder. His voice rattled on untiringly; alreadythe old man saw how the muscles or the jaw were slack and the eyesmoved loosely. The young Captain hid a toast to respond to; he swayedas he stood up to speak, and his tongue stumbled on his consonants. The reporter on Captain Price's left offered him champagne at themoment. 

"Take it away, " rumbled the old man. "Swill it yourself. "

The pressman nodded. "It is pretty shocking stuff, " he agreed. "I'mgoing nap on the coffee myself. "

It came to a finish at last. The bride went up to change, and oldCaptain Price took a cab to the docks. The Burdock was smart in newpaint, and even the deck hands had been washed for the occasion. 

"I'll go down with you a bit, " he explained to Sewell, the chiefmate. "The pilot'll bring me back. I suppose I can go up to thechart-house?"

"Of course, sir, " said Sewell. "If you can't go where you like aboardof us, who can?"

The old man smiled. "That'll be for the Captain to say, " he answered, and went up the ladder. 

She was very smart, the old Burdock, and Arthur had made changes inthe chart-house, but she had the same feel for her old Captain. Underher paint and frills, the steel of her structure was unaltered; theold engines would heave her along; the old seas conspire against her. Shift and bedeck and bedrape her as they might, she was yet theBurdock; her lights would run down the Channel with no newconsciousness in their stare, and there was work and peril for menaboard of her as of old. 

"Ah, father, " said Arthur Price, as he came on the bridge. "Come toshee me chase her roun' the d-dock, eh?" Even as he spoke hetottered. "Damn shiip-pery deck, eh!" he said. "Well, you'll sheeshome shteering, 'tanyrate. "

He wiped his forehead and his cap fell off. The old man stoopedhurriedly and picked it up for him. 

"Brace up, Arthur, " he said, in an urgent whisper, "an' let the pilottake her down the dock. For God's sake, don't run any risks. "

"I'm Captain, " said the younger man. "Aren't I Capt'n? Well, then, 'nough said!" He went to the bridge rail. 

"All ready, Mish' Mate?" he demanded, and proceeded to get hismoorings in. 

The mud pilot came to the old Captain's side. 

"Captain, " he said, "that man's drunk. "

The old man shuddered a little. "Don't make a noise, " he said. "He--he was married to-day. "

"Aye. " The pilot shook his head. "You know me, Captain; it's not methat would give a son of yours away. But I can't let him bump herabout. He isn't you at handling a steamship, and he's drunk. "

The old Captain turned to him. "Help me out, " he said. "Pilot, giveme a help in this. I'll stand by him and handy to the telegraph. We'll get her through all right. There's that crowd on the dock"--hesigned to the festive guests--"waiting to see him off, and we mustn'tmake a show of him. And his wife's aboard. "

The pilot nodded shortly. "I'm willing. "

Arthur, leaning on the rail, was cursing the dock boat at the buoy. The lock was waiting for them, and he lurched to the telegraph, slammed the handle over with a clatter and rang for steam. The pilotand the old man leaned quickly to the indicator; he had ordered fullspeed ahead. 

"Stop her!" snapped the pilot as the decks beneath them pulsed tothe awakening engines. Arthur's hand was yet on the handle, but theold man's grip on his wrist was firm, and the bell below clangedagain. The young Captain wheeled on them furiously. 

"Get off my brish, " he shouted. "Down with you, th' pair of you. " Hemade to advance on them, those two square old shipmen; he projected ageneral ruin; but his feet were not his own. He reeled against therail. 

"Port your helm!" commanded the pilot calmly. "Slow ahead!" OldCaptain Price rang for him and they began to draw out. Ashore thewedding guests were a flutter of waving handkerchiefs and hats. Theythanked God Minnie was not on the bridge. At the rail, Arthur lolledstupidly and seemed to be fighting down a nausea. 

"Steady!" came the sure voice of the pilot. "Steady as you go! Stopher!"

Arthur Price slipped then and came to his knees. Ashore, the partywas cheering. 

"Up with you, Arthur, " cried the old man in an agony. "Them people'slooking. Stiffen up, my boy. "

"Half speed ahead!" droned the pilot, never turning his head. 

The old man rattled the handle over and stooped to his son. 

"You can lie down when you turn her over to the mate, " he saidgrimly. "Till then you'll stand up and show yourself, if your feetperish under you. I'll hold you. "

They were drawing round a tier of big vessels, going cautiously, notwith the speed and knife-edge accuracy with which the old man hadbeen wont to take her out, but groping safely through the craft aboutthem. Arthur swayed and smiled and slackened, his head nodding asthough in response to the friends on the dock who never abated theirfarewell clamor. The grip on his arm held him up, for he had weakenedon his drink, as excitable men will. 

"Starboard!" ordered the pilot, and Captain Price half turned to passthe word. It was then that it happened. The drunken man pivoted wherehe stood and stumbled sideways, catching himself on the telegraph. The old man snatched him upright, for his knees were melting underhim, and from below there came the clang of the bell. Arthur Pricehad pulled the handle over. Forthwith she quickened; she drove aheadfor the stern of the ship she was being conned to clear; her prow wasaimed at it, like a descending sword. 

"Hard a-port!" roared the pilot, jumping back to bellow to the wheel. "Spin her round, sheer over with her!" The wheel engine set up itsclatter; with a savage wrench the old Captain shook his son tosteadiness for an instant and lifted his eyes to see the Burdockcharging to disaster. 

"Stop her!" cried the pilot. "Full astern!" Captain Price tightenedhis grip on his son's arm and reached for the handle with his otherhand. 

Clang! clang! went the deep-toned bell below, and swoosh went thereversed propeller. The pilot's orders rattled like hail on a roof;she came round, and old Captain Price had a glimpse of a knot offrantic men at the taff-rail of the ship they barely cleared. Then, slowly they wedged her into the lock-mouth and hauled in. 

"Close thing!" said the pilot, panting a little. 

The old man let his son lean against the rail, and turned-to him. 

"P'raps not, " he said. "Pilot, what did I ring them engines with?"The other stared. "I had a hold of him with this hand of mine; Ireached for the handle with my--other--hand. "

"But, " the pilot was perplexed--"but, Captain, you ain't got no otherhand. . "

"No!" Captain Price shook his head. "But I rang the engines with itall the same. I rang the Burdock out of a bump with it; and--" hehesitated a moment and nodded his head sideways at the limp, lollingbody of his son--"I rang his honor off the mud with it. "

The pilot cleared his brow; he simply gave the matter up. "And whatabout now?" he asked. "He ain't fit to be trusted with her?"

"No, " said Captain Price firmly. "He's going to retire from the sea;and till he does I'll sail as a passenger. And then I'll take theBurdock again. She don't care about that old spar of mine, theBurdock don't. "

XV

THE WIDOWER

In the evening they sat together, John Morrison and his mother, withthe curtains drawn, and the clear fire glowing on the red bricks ofthe fireplace. The old lady, after her custom, was prone to silence. Since Hilda's death she had said little, sparing the occasion thetriviality of useless words. That afternoon she had ridden with herson to the funeral, holding him up with her strength, fortifying himwith her courage. But now that his wife was gone for ever, and thepleasant house was overcast with its haunting emptiness, it seemedthat her power was gone. 

She had a piece of knitting to occupy her fingers, and over it shewatched her son. He had been stunned when Hilda died, bewildered anduncomprehending; for no young man fully grasps the meaning of death. Now, as he sat, he seemed to be convincing himself. He had broughtdown his dead wife's work-basket and a drawer from her dressing-table. He sat in a low arm-chair, and had them beside him on thefloor, and fingered deliberately among their contents for definitethings, little landmarks of lost days that stabbed him with theirassociations. But what stirred his mother was not the sorrow of hisloss so much as the uncertainty of parted lips and knitted brows thatsoftened his thin, aquiline face, so strongly in contrast with hishabit of brisk assurance. 

She spoke at last. "John, dear, you should go to bed now, " she said. "It's past eleven, my boy; and I'm afraid you'll wear yourself out. "

He had a small silver-backed hand-mirror in his hands. He had beenstaring into the glass of it for ten minutes. He looked up now andshook his head. "I couldn't, " he answered. "I couldn't, mother. There's no sleep in me. "

"But John----" began the mother again. 

"Please don't bother about me, " he interrupted. "I couldn't sleep, really. And I couldn't bear to lie awake--alone. " His eyes droppedtoward the mirror again. "You know, " he said, "it's only now, mother, that I realize that Hilda is really gone. I can't explain it verywell, but before this evening it seemed--well, it seemed idiotic tothink that my wife was dead. It felt impossible, somehow. "

"My poor boy!" said the old lady gently. 

"And even now, " he went on, with bowed head, "I have fancies. "

"What fancies, John?" asked Mrs. Morrison. 

He laid the mirror down on the floor, and glanced over his shouldertoward the door of the room before he answered. Then he looked at hismother squarely. 

"I'll tell you, " he said. And then he sat for some seconds inthought. "You know, mother, how close together we lived--Hilda and I. I suppose it's the same with all husbands and wives who are young andlove one another. We had a world of familiar little household jokesand tricks of our own. There was one in particular. Whenever I wasin here, and Hilda came in, she'd tiptoe through the door and try toget close and surprise me before I heard her. Does it sound foolishto you, mother? If it does, you don't understand at all. "

Mrs. Morrison picked up her knitting and worked a dozen quickstitches. "No; it doesn't seem foolish. I understand it all, mydear, " she replied. 

He nodded. "Well, " he said, "that's what my fancies are about. Thereare moments when I seem to hear something; and I feel quite sure--absolutely, utterly certain--that if I turn round I shall see herthere, coming up behind me, all sparkling with laughter. But I'velooked, and----"

He dropped his head into his hands, and his shoulders heaved. 

Mrs. Morrison laid her knitting down and went over to him. "John, dear, " she said, laying a hand lightly on his arm--"John, dear, thiswon't do at all. I want to help you, my boy. You know that, don'tyou? But I can't let you comfort yourself with these dreams, dear. They're bad--very bad for you. It's not that way that we shall seeour Hilda again, John. "

"Oh, I know, " he answered. "I know, mother. " He sat up again, and puther hand away with a warm pressure of thanks. 

The old lady went back to her chair with a grave face, and for awhile they sat again in silence. The fire was burning now a littledull, and about the room were sober shadows. John fell again tohandling trifles from the work-basket and the drawer, lifting each tolook at it carefully, and laying it aside again. 

"Are you looking for something, dear?" asked Mrs. Morrison at last. 

"Eh? Oh no, " he answered absently. "But I was thinking. "

"Don't think too much, my boy, " she said. 

"It was nothing much, " he said, frowning. "But, mother, what horriblethings these are!" He pointed with a sharp thrust of his finger tothe trinkets on the floor. "She used them, mother. She had themabout her every day. She handled them, and used them for hermomentary purposes and necessities and there is no trace of her onany one of them. "

"John, John!" Mrs. Morrison appealed to him with an outstretchedhand, for he spoke with a kind of passion that hurt her like animpropriety. 

He went on as though he had heard nothing. "Look at this thing, " hesaid. "It was the silver mirror. She used it a dozen times a day. Herface was bright in it a thousand times--when she put up her hair, andwhen she let it down in a cascade over her shoulders. She wasbeautiful, and it was the companion of her beauty. And--yet it'sempty now, as empty as her bed, as empty as all this stricken house. As though she had never lived, mother--as though there had been noHilda. "

He dropped the mirror beside him, and rose from his chair, to pace upand down the room with quick, nervous strides. 

Mrs. Morrison rose too. "John, dear, " she said, stopping him withoutstretched hands, "don't talk like that. We know better--you and I. The mirror can tell us nothing, nor any of those things you aretorturing yourself with. She gave them nothing, my boy; it was for usshe lived, not them. Our love, dear, and the pain of our loss, andall our memories; these are Hilda's witnesses. They remain to proveher to us and fulfil the beauty and goodness of her life. Don't speakas though Hilda had been wasted on us, dear. "

"Wasted!" He started at the word. "Wasted! Oh God!"

She took him by the arm and drew him back to his chair by the fire. But even as he sat down he glanced again over his shoulder at thedoor. To all her entreaties to go to bed he remained obdurate. 

"Do you know that I am very tired, John?" she said at last. 

He looked up quickly. "Then you go to bed, mother, " he urged. "I--Iwish you would. I'd like to be alone for a little. 

"If I leave you, will you promise you will not stay long?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he said. "All right. I'll promise, mother. "

When she had left him he stood for a while in the centre of thefloor, hands in pockets, his head drooping, in deep thought. He was aspare man, lean and tall, bred to composure, and serenity. Thus whenthere came a tragedy to overwhelm his training, he had few reserves;his propriety of demeanor lost, his soul was raw. His very attitude, as he stood, was eloquent of pain and helplessness. He had beenmarried a little more than a year, and it seemed now as though thatyear stood vignetted on a broad border of sadness. 

The fire rustled and clicked as the coals spent themselves. He had afeeling of chill and faintness, and he went back slowly to hischair. Seated there again, the silver toys were all round him, gleaming slyly at him with a sort of suggestiveness. He packed up themirror, once more, and looked into the oval glass at it. He wasfeeling a little dizzy, these last days had burdened him heavily, andthe afternoon had been a long stress of emotion. Thus, for a space ofminutes he sat, the glass before him, his eyes half closed. 

It seemed to him that he must have dozed, for he sat up with thestart of a man who arrests himself on the brink of sleep. The mirrorwas in his hand. He stared at it with wide eyes, thrusting it atarm's length before him. For in it he saw--not a flicker of thefirelight swaying on the wall, but a face that moved across from thedoor--the face of his dead wife. 

He saw it cross the field of the little mirror, reflected in profile, and pass beyond it. He sat yet a moment, enthralled in senselessamazement, then let the glass fall from his outstretched hand, andturned where he sat. 

He sprang to his feet. "Hilda!" he cried. "Hilda!"

Her face welcomed him with a little smile, sober and kind. 

"Yes, dear, " she said gently; "it is Hilda!"

He did not go to her, but stood staring, and groping for the key tohis understanding. She was about five paces from him--Hildaundeniably, to the soft contour of her cheek and the shaded gold ofher hair. 

He found words: "Are you here with me, Hilda? Or have I gone mad? Orperhaps I've been mad all along!"

She smiled again, and through the fog of his bewilderment and wonderhe recognized the smile. 

"Not mad, dear, " she was saying. "Not mad. But it is very strange andwonderful at first, isn't it?"

"Strange and wonderful?" He put an uncertain hand to his face andpassed it over his eyes. "Something has happened to me, " he said. "Tomy eyes, I think. Things look strange. And--and there is Hilda!" Hepaused. "I'd been longing for Hilda. "

She came a step nearer to him then. "I know, " she murmured softly. "Iknow, dear. But that is past now. "

There was an infinite tenderness in her tone, the tenderness of amother who uplifts her child through a season of pain. He felt it, and it seemed to help him to clear away some of the dimness thatbesieged his senses. 

"Then----" he began, but stayed himself. "You know, " he saidhaltingly, "you died. Hilda died. I saw it: my arms were round her. "

"Yes, dear, " she answered. "Hilda died. But don't you understand?"

"No, " he replied, but none the less understanding was dawning uponhim. "How--how did you come here?" he asked. 

"I came by the same way as you, John, dear, " she said. As again sheseemed to take one step toward him. "There is no other way. "

"No other way!" He repeated the words twice. 

"Hilda, " he said, and went to her. 

"Yes, dear?"

He took her hand; it lay close and familiarly in his palm. 

"Everything seems to be far away from me--except you, " he said. "Isee you; I hear you speak. What does it mean, my darling?"

Her eyes were full of love. "Don't you know yet, John?" she asked. 

"No, " he answered slowly; "unless--unless----Hilda, am I dead?"

She did not speak to answer him, but nodded thrice, very slowly. 

They found him in his chair before the ashes of the fire. At his feetthe mirror was broken across, where it had dropped from his hand. And the lips were parted in a sort of uncertainty. 

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