TOMASO'S FORTUNE and other storiesby HENRY SETON MERRIMAN. 

 "The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, Is--not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be, --but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair . . . "

CONTENTS. 

SISTER. A SMALL WORLD. IN A CROOKED WAY. THE TALE OF A SCORPION. ON THE ROCKS. "GOLOSSA-A-L". THE MULE. IN LOVE AND WAR. TOMASO'S FORTUNE. STRANDED. PUTTING THINGS RIGHT. FOR JUANITA'S SAKE. AT THE FRONT. THE END OF THE "MOOROO". IN A CARAVAN. IN THE TRACK OF THE WANDERING JEW. THROUGH THE GATE OF TEARS. A PARIAH. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. 

SISTER

It does not matter where it was. I do not want other people--thatis to say, those who were around us--to recognize Sister or myself. It is not likely that she will see this, and I am not sure that sheknows my name. Of course, some one may draw her attention to thispaper, and she may remember that the name affixed to it is thatwhich I signed at the foot of a document we made out together--namely, a return of deaths. At the foot of this paper our namesstood one beneath the other--stand there still, perhaps, in someforgotten bundle of papers at the War Office. 

I only hope that she will not see this, for she might consider it abreach of professional etiquette; and I attach great importance tothe opinion of this woman, whom I have only seen once in my wholelife. Moreover, on that occasion she was subordinate to me--more orless in the position of a servant. 

Suffice it to say, therefore, that it was war-time, and our tradewas what the commercial papers call brisk. A war better rememberedof the young than of the old, because it was, comparativelyspeaking, recent. The old fellows seem to remember the old fightsbetter--those fights that were fought when their blood was stillyoung and the vessels thereof unclogged. 

It was, by the way, my first campaign, but I was not new to thebusiness of blood; for I am no soldier--only a doctor. My onlyuniform--my full-parade dress--is a red cross on the arm of an oldblue serge jacket--such jacket being much stained with certain dullpatches which are better not investigated. 

All who have taken part in war--doing the damage or repairing it--know that things are not done in quite the same way when ball-cartridge is served out instead of blank. The correspondents arevery fond of reporting that the behaviour of the men suggested aparade--which simile, it is to be presumed, was borne in upon theirfantastic brains by its utter inapplicability. The parade may besuggested before the real work begins--when it is a question ofmarching away from the landing-stage; but after the work--our work--has begun, there is remarkably little resemblance to a review. 

We are served with many official papers which we never fill in, because, on the spur of the moment, it is apt to suggest itself thatmen's lives are more important. We misapply a vast majority of oursurgical supplies, because the most important item is usually leftbehind at headquarters or at the seaport depot. In fact, we do manythings that we should leave undone, and omit to do more which we areexpected (officially) to do. 

For some reason--presumably the absence of better men--I was sent upto the front before we had been three days at work. Our hospital bythe river was not full when I received orders to follow the flyingcolumn with two assistants and the appliances of a field-hospital. 

Out of this little nucleus sprang the largest depot for sick andwounded that was formed during the campaign. We were within easyreach of headquarters, and I was fortunately allowed a free hand. Thus our establishment in the desert grew daily more important, andfinally superseded the hospital at headquarters. 

We had a busy time, for the main column had now closed up with thefirst expeditionary force, and our troops were in touch with theenemy not forty miles away from me. 

In the course of time--when the authorities learnt to ceasedespising the foe, which is a little failing in British militaryhigh places--it was deemed expedient to fortify us, and then, inaddition to two medical assistants, I was allowed three Governmentnurses. This last piece of news was not hailed with so muchenthusiasm as might have been expected. I am not in favour ofbringing women anywhere near the front. They are, for their ownsakes and for the peace of mind of others, much better left behind. If they are beyond a certain age they break down and have to be sentback at considerable trouble--that is to say, an escort and anambulance cart, of which latter there are never enough. If they arebelow the climacteric--ever so little below it--they cause mischiefof another description, and the wounded are neglected; for there isno passion of the human heart so cruel and selfish as love. 

"I am sorry to hear it, " I said to light-hearted little Sammy Fitz-Warrener of the Naval Brigade, who brought me the news. 

"Sorry to hear it? Gad! I shouldn't be. The place has got adifferent look about it when there are women-folk around. They areso jolly clever in their ways--worth ten of your red-crossruffians. "

"That is as may be, " I answered, breaking open the case of whiskywhich Sammy had brought up on the carriage of his machine-gun for myprivate consumption. 

He was taking this machine-gun up to the front, and mighty proud hewas of it. 

"A clever gun, " he called it; "an almighty clever gun. "

He had ridden alongside of it--sitting on the top of his horse assailors do--through seventy miles of desert without a halt; watchingover it and tending it as he might have watched and tended hismother, or perhaps some other woman. 

"Gad! doctor, " he exclaimed, kicking out his sturdy legs, andcontemplating with some satisfaction the yellow hide top-boots whichhe had bought at the Army and Navy Stores. (I know the boots well, and--avoid them. ) "Gad! doctor, you should see that gun on the war-path. Travels as light as a tricycle. And when she begins to talk--my stars! Click-click-click-click! For all the world like asteam-launch's engine--mowing 'em down all the time. No work foryou there. It will be no use you and your satellites progging aboutwith skewers for the bullet. Look at the other side, my boy, andyou'll find the beauty has just walked through them. "

"Soda or plain?" I asked, in parenthesis. 

"Soda. I don't like the flavour of dead camel. A big drink, please. I feel as if I were lined with sand-paper. "

He slept that night in the little shanty built of mud and roofedchiefly with old palm-mats, which was gracefully called the headsurgeon's quarters. That is to say, he partook of such hospitalityas I had to offer him. 

Sammy and I had met before he had touched a rope or I a scalpel. Wehailed from the same part of the country--down Devonshire way; and, to a limited extent, we knew each other's people--which littlephrase has a vast meaning in places where men do congregate. 

We turned in pretty early--I on a hospital mattress, he in my bed;but Sam would not go to sleep. He would lie with his arms above hishead (which is not an attitude of sleep) and talk about thateverlasting gun. 

I dozed off to the murmur of his voice expatiating on the extremecunning of the ejector, and awoke to hear details of the rifling. 

We did not talk of home, as do men in books when lying by a camp-fire. Perhaps it was owing to the absence of that picturesqueadjunct to a soldier's life. We talked chiefly of the clever gun;and once, just before he fell asleep, Sammy returned to the questionof the nurses. 

"Yes, " he said, "the head saw-bones down there told me to tell youthat he had got permission to send you three nurses. Treat 'emkindly, Jack, for my sake. Bless their hearts! They mean well. "

Then he fell asleep, and left me thinking of his words, and of thespirit which had prompted them. 

I knew really nothing of this man's life, but he seemed singularlyhappy, with that happiness which only comes when daily existence hasa background to it. He spoke habitually of women, as if he lovedthem all for the sake of one; and this not being precisely my ownposition, I was glad when he fell asleep. 

The fort was astir next morning at four. The bugler kindly blew ablast into our glassless window which left no doubt about it. 

"That means all hands on deck, I take it, " said Sam, who was one ofthe few men capable of good humour before tiffin time. 

By six o'clock he was ready to go. It was easy to see what sort ofofficer this cheery sailor was by the way his men worked. 

While they were getting the machine-gun limbered up, Sam came backto my quarters, and took a hasty breakfast. 

"Feel a bit down this morning, " he said, with a gay smile. "Cheap--very cheap. I hope I am not going to funk it. It is all very wellfor some of you long-faced fellows, who don't seem to have much tolive for, to fight for the love of fighting. I don't want to fightany man; I am too fond of 'em all for that. "

I went out after breakfast, and I gave him a leg up on to his verysorry horse, which he sat like a tailor or a sailor. He held thereins like tiller-lines, and indulged in a pleased smile at theeffect of the yellow boots. 

"No great hand at this sort of thing, " he said, with a nod offarewell. "When the beast does anything out of the common, orbegins to make heavy weather of it, I AM NOT. "

He ranged up alongside his beloved gun, and gave the word of commandwith more dignity than he knew what to do with. 

All that day I was employed in arranging quarters for the nurses. To do this I was forced to turn some of our most precious stores outinto the open, covering them with a tarpaulin, and in consequencefelt all the more assured that my chief was making a great mistake. 

At nine o'clock in the evening they arrived, one of the juniorshaving ridden out in the moonlight to meet them. He reported themcompletely exhausted; informed me that he had recommended them to gostraight to bed; and was altogether more enthusiastic about thematter than I personally or officially cared to see. 

He handed me a pencil note from my chief at headquarters, explainingthat he had not written me a despatch because he had nothing but a"J" pen, with which instrument he could not make himself legible. It struck me that he was suffering from a plethora of assistance, and was anxious to reduce his staff. 

I sent my enthusiastic assistant to the nurses' quarters, with amessage that they were not to report themselves to me until they hadhad a night's rest. Then I turned in. 

At midnight I was awakened by the orderly, and summoned to the tentof the officer in command. This youth's face was considerablywhiter than his linen. He was consulting with his second incommand, a boy of twenty-two or thereabouts. 

A man covered with sand and blood was sitting in a hammock-chair, rubbing his eyes, and drinking something out of a tumbler. 

"News from the front?" I inquired without ceremony, which hindrancewe had long since dispensed with. 

"Yes, and bad news. "

It certainly was not pleasant hearing. Some one mentioned the word"disaster, " and we looked at each other with hard, anxious eyes. Ithought of the women, and almost decided to send them back beforedaylight. 

In a few moments a fresh man was roused out of his bed, and sentfull gallop through the moonlight across the desert to headquarters, and the officer in command began to regain confidence. I think heextracted it from the despatch-bearer's tumbler. After all, he wasnot responsible for much. He was merely a connecting-link, a pointof touch between two greater men. 

It was necessary to get my men to work at once, but I gaveparticular orders to leave the nurses undisturbed. Disaster at thefront meant hard work at the rear. We all knew that, andendeavoured to make ready for a sudden rush of wounded. 

The rush began before daylight. As they came in we saw to them, dressing their wounds and packing them as closely as possible. Butthe stream was continuous. They never stopped coming; they nevergave us a moment's rest. 

At six o'clock I gave orders to awaken the nurses and order them toprepare their quarters for the reception of the wounded. At half-past six an Army Hospital Corps man came to me in the ward. 

"Shockin' case, sir, just come in, " he said. "Officer. Gun busted, sir. "

"Take him to my quarters, " I said, wiping my instruments on mysleeve. 

In a few minutes I followed, and on entering my little room thefirst thing I saw was a pair of yellow boots. 

There was no doubt about the boots and the white duck trousers, andalthough I could not see the face, I knew that this was Sammy Fitz-Warrener come back again. 

A woman--one of the nurses for whom he had pleaded--was bending overthe bed with a sponge and a basin of tepid water. As I entered sheturned upon me a pair of calmly horror-stricken eyes. 

"OH!" she whispered meaningly, stepping back to let me approach. Ihad no time to notice then that she was one of those largely builtwomen, with perfect skin and fair hair, who make one think of whatEngland must have been before Gallic blood got to be so widelydisseminated in the race. 

"Please pull down that mat from the window, " I said, indicating atemporary blind which I had put up. 

She did so promptly, and returned to the bedside, falling intoposition as it were, awaiting my orders. 

I bent over the bed, and I must confess that what I saw there gaveme a thrill of horror which will come again at times so long as Ilive. 

I made a sign to Sister to continue her task of sponging away themud, of which one ingredient was sand. 

"Both eyes, " she whispered, "are destroyed. "

"Not the top of the skull, " I said; "you must not touch that. "

For we both knew that our task was without hope. 

As I have said, I knew something of Fitz-Warrener's people, and Icould not help lingering there, where I could do no good, when Iknew that I was wanted elsewhere. 

Suddenly his lips moved, and Sister, kneeling down on the floor, bent over him. 

I could not hear what he said, but I think she did. I saw her lipsframe the whisper "Yes" in reply, and over her face there sweptsuddenly a look of great tenderness. 

After a little pause she rose and came to me. 

"Who is he?" she asked. 

"Fitz-Warrener of the Naval Brigade. Do you know him?"

"No, I never heard of him. Of course--it is quite hopeless?"

"Quite. "

She returned to her position by the bedside, with one arm laidacross his chest. 

Presently he began whispering again, and at intervals she answeredhim. It suddenly occurred to me that, in his unconsciousness, hewas mistaking her for some one else, and that she, for some woman'sreason, was deceiving him purposely. 

In a few moments I was sure of this. 

I tried not to look; but I saw it all. I saw his poor blind handswander over her throat and face, up to her hair. 

"What is this?" he muttered quite distinctly, with that tone ofself-absorption which characterizes the sayings of an unconsciousman. "What is this silly cap?"

His fingers wandered on over the snowy linen until they came to thestrings. 

As an aspirant to the title of gentleman, I felt like running away--many doctors know this feeling; as a doctor, I could only stay. 

His fingers fumbled with the strings. Still Sister bent over thebed. Perhaps she bent an inch or two nearer. One hand was beneathhis neck, supporting the poor shattered head. 

He slowly drew off the cap, and his fingers crept lovingly over thesoft fair hair. 

"Marny, " he said, quite clearly, "you've done your hair up, andyou're nothing but a little girl, you know--nothing but a littlegirl. "

I could not help watching his fingers, and yet I felt like a mancommitting sacrilege. 

"When I left you, " said the brainless voice, "you wore it down yourback. You were a little girl--you are a little girl now. " And heslowly drew a hairpin out. 

One long lock fell curling to her shoulder. She never looked up, never noticed me, but knelt there like a ministering angel--personating for a time a girl whom we had never seen. 

"My little girl, " he added, with a low laugh, and drew out anotherhairpin. 

In a few moments all her hair was about her shoulders. I had neverthought that she might be carrying such glory quietly hidden beneaththe simple nurse's cap. 

"That is better, " he said--"that is better. " And he let all thehairpins fall on the coverlet. "Now you are my own Marny, " hemurmured. "Are you not?"

She hesitated one moment. "Yes, dear, " she said softly. "I am yourown Marny. "

With her disengaged hand she stroked his blanching cheek. There wasa certain science about her touch, as if she had once knownsomething of these matters. 

Lovingly and slowly the smoke-grimed fingers passed over thewonderful hair, smoothing it. 

Then he grew more daring. He touched her eyes, her gentle cheeks, the quiet, strong lips. He slipped to her shoulder, and over thesoft folds of her black dress. 

"Been gardening?" he asked, coming to the bib of her nursing apron. 

It was marvellous how the brain, which was laid open to the day, retained the consciousness of one subject so long. 

"Yes--dear, " she whispered. 

"Your old apron is all wet!" he said reproachfully, touching herbreast where the blood--his own blood--was slowly drying. 

His hand passed on, and as it touched her, I saw her eyes softeninto such a wonderful tenderness that I felt as if I were looking ona part of Sister's life which was sacred. 

I saw a little movement as if to draw back, then she resolutely heldher position. But her eyes were dull with a new pain. I wonder--Ihave wondered ever since--what memories that poor senseless wreck ofa man was arousing in the woman's heart by his wandering touch. 

"Marny, " he said, "Marny. It was not TOO hard waiting for me?"

"No, dear. "

"It will be all right now, Marny. The bad part is all past. "

"Yes. "

"Marny, you remember--the night--I left--Marny--I want--no--no, yourLIPS. "

I knelt suddenly, and slipped my hand within his shirt, for I sawsomething in his face. 

As Sister's lips touched his I felt his heart give a great boundwithin his breast, and then it was still. When she lifted her faceit was as pale as his. 

I must say that I felt like crying--a feeling which had not come tome for twenty years. I busied myself purposely with the dead man, and when I had finished my task I turned, and found Sister fillingin the papers--her cap neatly tied, her golden hair hidden. 

I signed the certificate, placing my name beneath hers. 

For a moment we stood. Our eyes met, and--we said nothing. Shemoved towards the door, and I held it open while she passed out. 

Two hours later I received orders from the officer in command tosend the nurses back to headquarters. Our men were falling backbefore the enemy. 

A SMALL WORLD

 "Thine were the calming eyes That round my pinnace could have stilled the sea, And drawn thy voyager home, and bid him be Pure with their pureness, with their wisdom wise, Merged in their light, and greatly lost in thee. "

It was midday at the monastery of Montserrat, and a monk, walking inthe garden, turned and paused in his meditative promenade to listento an unwonted noise. The silence of this sacred height is sointense that many cannot sleep at night for the hunger of a sound. There is no running water except the fountain in the patio. Thereare no birds to tell of spring and morning. There are no trees forthe cool night winds to stir, nothing but eternal rock and theancient building so closely associated with the life of Ignatius deLoyola. The valley, a sheer three thousand feet below, is thinlyenough populated, though a great river and the line of railway fromManresa to Barcelona run through it. So clear is the atmospherethat at the great distance the contemplative denizens of themonastery may count the number of the railway carriages, while nosound of the train, or indeed of any life in the valley, reachestheir ears. 

What the monk heard was disturbing, and he hurried to the corner ofthe garden, from whence a view of the winding road may be obtained. Floating on the wind came the sound, as from another world, ofshouting, and the hollow rumble of wheels. The holy man peered downinto the valley, and soon verified his fears. It was thediligencia, which had quitted the monastery a short hour ago, thatflew down the hill to inevitable destruction. Once before in therecollection of the watcher the mules had run away, rushing down totheir death, and carrying with them across that frontier the livesof seven passengers, devout persons, who, having performed thepilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of Montserrat, had doubtlessreceived their reward. The monk crossed himself, but, being human, forgot alike to pray and to call his brethren to witness the scene. It was like looking at a play from a very high gallery. Theminiature diligencia on the toy road far below swayed from the bankof the highway to the verge--the four mules stretched out at agallop, as in a picture. The shouts dimly heard at the monasteryhad the effect they were intended to create, for the monk could seethe carters and muleteers draw aside to let the living avalanche gopast. 

There were but two men on the box-seat of the diligencia--the driverand a passenger seated by his side. The monk recollected that thispassenger had passed two days at Montserrat, inscribing himself inthe visitors' book as Matthew S. Whittaker. 

"I am ready to take the reins when your arms are cramped, " thispassenger was saying at that precise moment, "but I do not know theroad, and I cannot drive so well as you. "

He finished with a curt laugh, and, holding on with both hands, heturned and looked at his companion. He was not afraid, and deathassuredly stared him in the face at that moment. 

"Thanks for that, at all events, " returned the driver, handling hisreins with a steady skill. Then he fell to cursing the mules. Ashe rounded each corner of the winding road, he gave a derisive shoutof triumph; as he safely passed a cart, he gave voice to a yell ofdefiance. He went to his death--if death awaited him--with a finespirit, with a light in his eyes and the blood in his tanned cheeks. 

The man at his side could perhaps have saved himself by a leap whichmight, with good fortune, have resulted in nothing more serious thana broken limb. As he had been invited by the driver to take thisleap and had curtly declined, it is worth while to pause and giveparticulars of this passenger on the runaway diligencia. He was aslightly built man, dressed in the ordinary dark clothes and softblack felt hat of the middle class Spaniard. His face was brown andsun-dried, with deep lines drawn downwards from the nose to the lipsin such a manner that cynicism and a mildly protesting tolerancewere contending for mastery in an otherwise studiously inexpressivecountenance. 

"The Excellency does not blame me for this?" the driver jerked out, as he hauled round a corner with a sort of pride. 

"No, my friend, " replied the American; and he broke off suddenly tocurve his two hands around his lips and give forth a warning shoutin a clear tenor that rang down the valley like a trumpet. 

A muleteer leading a heavily laden animal drew his beast into theditch, and leapt into the middle of the road. He stepped nimblyaside and sprang at the leading mule, but was rolled into the ditchlike an old hat. 

"That is an old torero, " shouted the driver. "Bravo, bravo!"

As they flew on, Whittaker turned in his seat and caught a glimpseof the man standing in the middle of the road, with arms spread outin an attitude of apology and deprecation. 

"Ah!" cried the driver, "we shall not pass these. Now leap!"

"No, " answered the other, and gave his warning shout. 

Below them on the spiral road two heavy carts were slowly mounting. These were the long country carts used for the carriage of wine-casks, heavily laden with barrels for the monastery. The drivers, looking up, saw in a moment what to expect, and ran to the head oftheir long teams of eight mules, but all concerned knew in a flashof thought that they could not pull aside in time. 

"Leap, in the name of a saint!" cried the driver, clenching histeeth. 

Whittaker made no answer. But he cleared his feet and sat forward, his keen face and narrow eyes alert to seize any chance of life. The maddened mules rushed on, seeking to free themselves from theswaying destroyer on their heels. The leaders swung round thecorner, but refused to obey the reins when they caught sight of thecart in front. The brakes had long ceased to act; the wooden blockswere charred as by fire. The two heavier mules at the pole made aterrified but intelligent attempt to check the pace, and the weightyvehicle skidded sideways across the road, shuddering and rattling asit went. It poised for a moment on the edge of the slope, while themules threw themselves into their collars--their intelligenceseeming to rise at this moment to a human height. Then the greatvehicle turned slowly over, and at the same moment Whittaker and thedriver leapt into the tangle of heels and harness. One of theleaders swung right out in mid-air with flying legs, and mules anddiligencia rolled over and over down the steep in a cloud of dustand stones. 

When Matthew S. Whittaker recovered consciousness, he found himselfin a richly furnished bedroom. He woke as if from sleep, with hissenses fully alert, and began at once to take an interest in aconversation of which he had been conscious in the form of a faintmurmur for some time. 

"A broken arm, my child, and nothing more, so far as I can tell atpresent, " were the first comprehensible words. Whittaker tried tomove his left arm, and winced. 

"And the other man?" inquired a woman's voice in Spanish, but withan accent which the listener recognised at once. This was anEnglishwoman speaking Spanish. 

"Ah! the other man is dead. Poor Mogul! He was always civil andGod-fearing. He has driven the diligencia up to us for nearlytwenty years. "

Whittaker turned his head, and winced again. The speaker was amonk--fat and good-natured--one of the few now left in the greathouse on Montserrat. His interlocutor was a woman not more thanthirty, with brown hair that gleamed in the sunlight, and a fresh, thoughtful face. Her attitude was somewhat independent, her mannerindicated a self-reliant spirit. This was a woman who wouldprobably make mistakes in life, but these would not be the errors ofomission. She was a prototype of a sex and an age which err inadvancing too quickly, and in holding that everything which is old-fashioned must necessarily be foolish. 

Whittaker lay quite still and watched these two, while the deep-drawn lines around his lips indicated a decided sense of amusement. He was in pain, but that was no new condition to a man whose spirithad ever been robuster than his body. He had, at all events, notbeen killed, and his last recollection had been the effort to facedeath. So he lay with a twisted smile on his lips listening toBrother Lucas, who, sad old monk that he was, took infinite pleasurein glorifying to the young lady his own action in causing themonastery cart to be brought out, and in driving down the slope at abreakneck pace to place his medical knowledge at the disposal ofsuch as might require it. He bowed in a portly way, and indicatedwith a very worldly politeness that he himself was, in fact, at thedisposal of the Senorita. 

"I was not always a monk--I began life as a doctor, " he explained. 

And his companion looked at him with speculative, clever eyes, scenting afar off, with the quickness of her kind, the usual littleromance--the everlasting woman. 

"Ah!" she said slowly. 

And Whittaker in the alcove coughed with discretion. Both turnedand hurried towards him. 

"He has recovered his senses, " said the girl. 

The monk had, however, not laid aside all the things of this world. He remembered the little ceremonies appertaining to the professionwhich he had once practised. He waived aside the girl, and stoopedover the bed. 

"You understand what I say--you see me?" he inquired in a soothingvoice. 

"Most assuredly, " replied Whittaker, coolly. "Most assuredly, myfather. And I do not think there is much the matter with me. "

"Holy Saints, but you go too quickly, " laughed the monk. "You willbe wanting next to get up and walk. "

"I should not mind trying. "

"Ah, that is good! Then you will soon be well. Senorita, we shallhave no trouble with this patient. This, Senor, is the SenoritaCheyne; in whose house you find yourself, and to whom your thanksare due. "

Whittaker turned in bed to thank her; but instead of speaking, hequietly fainted. He came to his senses again, and found that it wasevening. The windows of his room were open, and he could see acrossthe valley the brown hills of Catalonia, faintly tinged with pink. A nursing sister in her dark blue dress and white winged cap wasseated at the open window, gazing reflectively across the valley. There was an odour of violets in the room. A fitful breeze stirredthe lace curtains. Whittaker perceived his own travel-wornportmanteau lying half unpacked on a side table. It seemed thatsome one had opened it to seek the few necessaries of the moment. He noted with a feeling of helplessness that his simple travellingaccessories had been neatly arranged on the dressing-table. A cleanhandkerchief lay on the table at the bedside. The wounded manbecame conscious of a feeling that he had lost some of the solitaryliberty which had hitherto been his. It seemed that he had beenpicked up on the road helpless and insensible by some one with thewill and power to take entire charge of him. The feeling was so newto this adventurer that he lay still and smiled. 

Presently the nun rose and came quietly towards him, disclosingwithin the halo of her snowy cap a gentle pink-and-white facewrinkled by the passage of uneventful years. She nodded cheerfullyon seeing that his eyes were open, and gave him some soup which waswarming on a spirit lamp in readiness for his return toconsciousness. 

"I will tell the Senorita, " she said, and noiselessly quitted theroom. 

A minute later Miss Cheyne came in with a pleasant frou-frou ofsilk, and Whittaker wondered for whom she had dressed so carefully. 

"I did not know, " she said in English, with an ease of manner whichis of this generation, "that I had succoured a countryman. You wereliterally thrown at my gate. But the doctor, who has just left, confirms the opinion of Brother Lucas that you are not seriouslyhurt. A broken fore-arm and a severe shake, they say--to be curedby complete rest, which you will be able to enjoy here. For thereis no one in the house but my aunt, Mrs. Dorchester, and myself. "

She stood at the bedside, looking down at him with her capable, managing air. Whittaker now knew the source of that sense of being"taken in and done for, " of which he had become conscious the momenthis senses returned to him. 

"They say, " she went on, with a decisiveness which was probably anaccentuation of her usual attitude, inspired by the necessity ofsparing the patient the exertion of an explanation or an apology--"they say, however, that you are not naturally a very strong man, and that you have tried your constitution in the past, so thatgreater care is required than would otherwise be necessary in such acase. "

She looked at the brown face and sinewy neck, the hollow cheeks, thelean hands ("all wires, " as she decided in her own prompt mind), andher clear eyes were alight with a speculation as to what the pasthad been in which this man had tried his constitution. 

"I have led a rough life, " explained Whittaker; and Miss Cheynenodded her head in a manner indicative of the fact that she divinedas much. 

"I thought you were a Spaniard, " she said. 

"No; I have lived in the Spanish colonies, however--the last fewyears--since the troubles began. "

Miss Cheyne nodded again without surprise. She had gone about theworld, with those clear eyes of hers very wide open, and wasprobably aware that in those parts where, as Whittaker gracefullyput it, "troubles" are, such men as this are usually to be found. For it is not the large men who make a stir in the world. Theseusually sit at home and love a life of ease. It is even said thatthey take to novel-writing and other sedentary occupations. And inthe forefront, where things are stirring and history is to bemanufactured, are found the small and the frail, such as Matthew S. Whittaker, who, in addition to the battles of progress, have tocontend personally against constitutional delicacy, nervousdepression, and disease. 

Miss Cheyne kept silence for a few moments, and, during the pause, turned at the sound of horses' feet on the gravel below the windows. She seemed to have been expecting an arrival, and Whittaker noticeda sudden brightening of the eyes, an almost imperceptible movementof the shoulders, as if Miss Cheyne was drawing herself up. TheAmerican quickly reflected that the somewhat elaborate "toilette"was unusual, and connected it with the expected visitor. He was notsurprised when, with a polite assurance that he had only to ask foranything he might require, she turned and left him. 

Whittaker now remembered having been told by the voluble driver ofthe diligencia the history of a certain English Senorita who, havinginherited property from a forgotten uncle, had come to live in her"possession" on the mountain side. He further recollected that thehouse had been pointed out to him--a long, low dwelling of the dullred stone quarried in this part of Catalonia. Being of an observanthabit, he remembered that the house was overgrown by a hugewisteria, and faced eastward. He turned his head painfully, and nowsaw that his windows were surrounded by mauve fronds of wisteria. His room was, therefore, situated in the front of the house. Therewas, he recollected, a verandah below his windows, and he wonderedwhether Miss Cheyne received her visitors there in the cool of theafternoon. He listened half-sleepily, and heard the horse depart, led away by a servant. There followed the murmur of a conversation, between two persons only, below his window. So far as he couldgather from the tones, for the words were inaudible, they werespoken in English. And thus he fell asleep. 

During the next few days Whittaker made good progress, and fullyenjoyed the quiet prescribed to him by the doctors. The one eventof the day was Miss Cheyne's visit, to which he soon learnt to lookforward. He had, during an adventurous life, had little to do withwomen, and Miss Cheyne soon convinced him of the fact that manyqualities--such as independence, courage, and energy--were not, ashe had hitherto imagined, the monopoly of men alone. But theinterest thus aroused did not seem to be mutual. Miss Cheyne waskind and quick to divine his wants or thoughts; but her visits didnot grow longer day by day as, day by day, Whittaker wished theywould. Daily, moreover, the visitor arrived on horseback, and themurmured conversation in the verandah duly followed. A few weeksearlier Whittaker had made the voyage across to the island ofMajorca, to visit an old companion-in-arms there, and offer him amagnificent inducement to return to active service. That comradehad smilingly answered that he held cards of another suite. MissCheyne likewise appeared to hold another suite, and the Americanfelt vaguely that the dealer of life's cards seemed somehow to havepassed him by. 

He daily urged the young doctor to allow him to leave his bed, "ifonly, " he pleaded with his twisted smile, "to sit in a chair by thewindow. " At last he gained his point, and sat, watch in hand, awaiting the arrival of Miss Cheyne's daily visitor. To the end ofhis life Matthew Whittaker believed that some instinct guided him atthis time. He had only spoken with his nurse and the doctor, andhad refrained from making inquiries of either respecting the ladywhose hospitality he enjoyed. He had now carefully recalled allthat the dead driver of the diligencia had told him, and haddismissed half of it as mere gossip. Beyond the fact that MissCheyne's aunt, Mrs. Dorchester, acted as her companion, he knewnothing. But he had surmised, from remarks dropped by the younglady herself, that her mother had been a Spaniard; hence the unclefrom whom she had inherited this estate. He also had reason tobelieve that Miss Cheyne's mother had brought her up in the olderfaith. 

He reflected on these matters, and smiled half cynically at themagnitude of his own interest in Miss Cheyne as he sat at the openwindow. He had not long to wait before the clatter of horse's feeton the hard road became audible. The house stood back from thehigh-road in the midst of terraced olive groves, and was entirelysurrounded by a grove of cypress and ilex trees. The visitor, whoseadvent was doubtless awaited with as keen an impatience by anotherwithin the red stone house, now leisurely approached beneath theavenue of evergreen oak. Whittaker got painfully upon his feet, andstood, half concealed by the curtain. He was conscious of asingular lack of surprise when he recognized the face of thehorseman as one that he had already seen, though, when he came in aflash of thought to reflect upon it, this among all he knew was thelast face that he could have expected to see in that place. 

He sat down quite coolly and mechanically, thinking and acting asmen think and act, by instinct, in a crisis. He seemed to beobeying some pre-ordained plan. 

The horseman was dark and clean-shaven--the happy possessor of oneof those handsome Andalusian faces which are in themselves apassport in a world that in its old age still persists in judging byappearance. Whittaker scrupulously withdrew from the window. Hehad no desire to overhear their conversation. But his eyes werefierce with a sudden anger. The very attitude of the new-comer--hisrespectful, and yet patronizing, manner of removing his hat--clearlyshowed that he was a lover, perhaps a favoured one. And theAmerican, who, with all his knowledge of the world, knew so littleof women, stood in the middle of the room wrapt in thought. Itseemed hardly possible that a woman of Miss Cheyne's intelligence, awoman no longer in the first flush of girlhood, should fail toperceive the obvious. He did not know that so far as her vanity isconcerned a woman does not grow older, by the passage of years, butyounger--that she will often, for the sake of a little admiration, accept the careless patronage of a man, knowing well that his onegood quality is the skill with which he flatters her. He was notaware that Miss Cheyne was distinctly handicapped, and that herjudgment was warped by the fact that she had by some chance oranother reached to years of discretion without ever having had alover. 

Whittaker was not an impulsive man, although as prompt in action ashe was quick to make a decision. He was a citizen of that newcountry where an old chivalry still survives. His sense of chivalrywas also intensified by the fact, already stated, that he knew butlittle of that sex which is at the moment making a superficial stirin the world. 

"If the harm is done, a day more will make it no worse, I reckon, "he said reflectively. He would not listen to what they said, thoughhe could have heard easily enough, had he so desired. He watchedMiss Cheyne and her lover, however, as they slowly walked the lengthof the garden--she, holding a fan in the Spanish fashion, to shieldher face from the setting sun; the man, hat in hand, and carryinghimself with a sort of respectful grandeur, characteristic of hisrace. At the end of the garden they paused, and Whittaker smiledcynically at the sight of the man's dark eyes as he looked at MissCheyne. He was apparently asking for something, and she at lastyielded, giving him slowly, almost shyly, a few violets that she hadworn in her belt. Whittaker gave a curt laugh, but his eyes were byno means mirthful. 

Later in the evening Miss Cheyne came into his room. 

"You have had a visitor, " he said, in the course of their usualconversation. 

"Yes, " she answered frankly; and Whittaker reflected that, at allevents, she knew her own mind. 

He said nothing further upon that subject, but later he referred toa topic which he had hitherto scrupulously avoided. He had passedhis life among a class of men who were not in the habit of growingvoluble respecting themselves. 

"I think you take me for an Englishman, " he said. "I am not. I aman American. "

"Indeed! You have no accent, " replied Miss Cheyne; and, despitethat other suite of cards that she held, she looked at himspeculatively. She was, in a way, interested in him. 

"I have lived abroad a great deal, the last few years in Cuba. " Andhis quick eyes flashed across her face. She was not interested inCuba, at all events, and evidently knew nothing of that distressfulisland. When she left him, he stood looking at the closed doorreflectively. 

"It will be for to-morrow, " he said to himself, with his shortlaugh. 

The next morning the doctor paid his usual visit, and Whittakerhanded him an envelope. 

"I am leaving this evening, " he said, "and I shall leave in yourdebt. "

The doctor, who was a young man and a Spanish gentleman, slipped theenvelope into his pocket. 

"Thank you, " he said. "The debt is mine. You are not fit to bemoved yet; but it is as you like. "

"Will you order me a carriage to be here at five o'clock thisevening?"

"I will do as you like. "

"And omit to mention it to my hostess. You understand my positionhere, and my fear of outstaying a most courteous welcome?"

"I understand, " said the doctor, and departed. 

At four o'clock Whittaker had packed his portmanteau. He took uphis position at the window and waited. Before long he heard thesound of a horse's feet. Miss Cheyne's visitor presently appeared, and swung off his hat with the usual deferential pride. The horsewas led away. The usual murmured conversation followed. Whittakerrose and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold, and lookedslowly round the room as if conscious then that the moment was to beone of the indelible memories of his life. 

On the stairs he needed the support of the balustrade. When hereached the verandah his face was colourless, with shining eyes. Miss Cheyne was sitting with her back turned towards him, but hercompanion saw him at once and rose to his feet, lifting his hat witha politely inquiring air. From long habit acquired among anaturally polite people, Whittaker returned the salutation. 

"You do not recognise me, Senor?" he said, in English. 

And the other shook his head, still polite and rather surprised. 

"I was known in Cuba by the name of Mateo. "

The Spaniard's handsome, sunburnt face slowly turned to the colourof ashes. His eyes looked into Whittaker's, not in anger, but witha pathetic mingling of reproach and despair. 

"What is the meaning of this?" said Miss Cheyne, alert, and rising, characteristically, to the emergency of the moment. 

Whittaker bit his lip and looked at the Spaniard, who seemed to bedazed. 

"You had better go, " he said, almost gently. 

"What is the meaning of this?" repeated Miss Cheyne, looking fromone to the other. Then she turned to Whittaker, by what instinctshe never knew. "Who is this gentleman?" she asked, angrily. "Whathave you against him?"

Whittaker, still biting his lip, looked hard at her. Then he made agesture with his two hands, which was more eloquent than a thousandwords; for it seemed to convey to the two persons who breathlesslyawaited his words that he found himself in a position that wasintolerable. 

"I knew him in Cuba, " he said slowly. "I have nothing against him, Miss Cheyne; but the man is a priest. "

 * * *

"There, Senorita--I have made it myself. "

The proprietor of the Venta of the Moor's Mill set down upon thetable in front of the inn a cracked dish containing an omelette. Itwas not a bad omelette, though not quite innocent of wood-ash, perhaps, and somewhat ill-shapen. The man laughed gaily and drewhimself up. So handsome a man could surely be forgiven a brokenomelette and some charcoal, if only for the sake of his gay blueeyes, his curling brown hair, and his devil-may-care air ofprosperity. He looked at the Senorita and laughed in the manner ofa man who had never yet failed to "get on" with women. He foldedhis arms with fine, open gestures, and stood looking with approvingnods upon his own handiwork. He was without the shadow of thetrailing vine which runs riot over bamboo trelliswork in front ofthe Venta, affording a much needed shade in this the sunniest spotin all Majorca, and the fierce sun beat down upon his face, whichwas tanned a deep, healthy brown. He was clad almost in white; forhis trousers were of canvas, his shirt of spotless linen. Round hiswaist he wore the usual Spanish faja or bright red cloth. He wasconsciously picturesque, and withal so natural, so good-natured, soastonishingly optimistic, as to be quite inoffensive in his child-like conceit. 

The Venta of the Moor's Mill stands, as many know, at the northernend of the Val D'Erraha, looking down upon the broader valley, through which runs the high road from Palma to Valdemosa. The cityof Palma, itself, is only a few miles away, for such as know themountain path. Few customers come this way, and the actual trade ofthe Venta is small. Some day a German doctor will start a nerve-healing establishment here, with a table d'hote at six o'clock, andevery opportunity for practising the minor virtues--and the Valleyof Repose will be the Valley of Repose no longer. 

"Ah! It is a good omelette, " said the host of the Venta, as MissCheyne took up her fork. "Though I have not always been a cook, noryet an innkeeper. "

He raised one finger, shook it from side to side in an emphaticnegation, and laughed. Then he turned suddenly, and looked downinto the valley with a grave face and almost a sigh. 

The man had a history it appeared--and, rarer still, was willing totell it. 

She knew too much of the Spanish race, or perhaps of all men, to askquestions. 

"Yes, " she said pleasantly, "it is a good omelette. " And the manturned sharply and looked at her as if she had said somethingstartling. She noticed his action, and showed surprise. 

"It is nothing, " he said with a laugh, "only a coincidence--a mereaccident. It is said by the peasants that the mind of a friend haswings. Perhaps it is so. As I looked down into the valley I wasthinking of a man--a friend. Yes--name of a Saint--he was a friendof mine, although a gentleman! Educated? Yes, many languages, andLatin. And I--what am I? You see, Senorita, a peasant, who wearsno coat. "

And he laughed heartily, only to change again suddenly to gravity. 

"And as I looked down into the valley I was thinking of my friend--and, believe me, you spoke at that moment with something in yourvoice--in your manner--who knows?--which was like the voice andmanner of my friend. Perhaps, Senorita, the peasants are right, andthe mind of my friend, having wings, flew to us at that moment. "

The lady laughed, and said that it might be so. 

"It is not that you are English, " the innkeeper continued, with easyvolubility. "For I know you belong to no other nation. I said soto myself the moment I saw you, riding up here on horseback alone. I called upstairs to Juanita that there was an English Senoritacoming on a horse, and Juanita replied with a malediction, that Ishould raise my voice when the nino was asleep. She said that if itwas the Pope of Rome who came on a horse he must not wake the child. 'No, ' I answered, 'but he would have to go upstairs to see it;' andJuanita did not laugh. She sees no cause to laugh at anythingconnected with the nino--oh, no! it is a serious matter. "

He was looking towards the house as he spoke. 

"Juanita is your wife?" said the Englishwoman. 

"Yes. We have been married a year, and I am still sure that she isthe most beautiful woman in the world. Is it not wonderful? Andshe will be jealous if she hears me talking all this while with theSenorita. "

"You can tell her that the Senorita has grey hair, " said MissCheyne, practically. 

"That may be, " said the innkeeper, looking at her with his head onone side, and a gravely critical air. "But you still have the air"--he shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his hands--"the air thattakes a man's fancy. Who knows?"

Miss Cheyne, who had dealt much with a simple people, accustomed tothe statement of simple facts in plain language, only laughed. There is a certain rough purity of thought which vanishes at theadvance of civilisation. And cheap journalism, cheap fiction, cheapprudery have not yet reached Spain. 

"I know nothing, " went on the man, with a shrewd, upward nod of thehead. "But the Senorita has a lover. He may be faithless, he maybe absent, he may be dead--but he is there--the God be thanked!"

He touched his broad chest in that part where a deadly experiencetold him that the heart was to be found, and looked up to Heaven, all with a change of expression and momentary gravity quiteincomprehensible to men of northern breed. 

Miss Cheyne laughed again without self-consciousness. Uneducatedpeople have a way of arriving at once at those matters that interestrich and poor alike, which is rather refreshing, even to the highlyeducated. 

"But I, who talk like a washerwoman, forget that I am an innkeeper, "said the man, with a truer tact than is often found under finelinen. And he proceeded to wait on her with a grand air, as if shewere a queen and he a nobleman. 

"If Juanita were about it would be different, " he said, whipping thecloth from the table and shaking the crumbs to the four winds. "Andthe Senorita would be properly served. But--what will you? the ninois but a fortnight old, and I--I am new at my trade. The Senoritatakes coffee?"

Miss Cheyne intimated that she did take coffee. 

"And you, perhaps, will take a cup also, " she added, whereupon theman bowed in his best manner. He had that perfect savoir-faire--acertain innate gentlemanliness--which is the characteristic of allSpaniards. His manner indicated an appreciation of the honour, andconveyed at the same time the intimation that he knew quite well howto behave under the circumstances. 

He went into the house from which--all the doors and windows beingopen--came the sound of his conversation with Juanita, while heprepared the coffee. It was quite a frank and open conversation, having Miss Cheyne for its object, and stating that she had not onlyfound the omelette good, but had eaten it all. 

Presently he returned with the coffee-pot, two cups, and a small jugof cream on a tray. He turned the handle of the coffee-pot towardsMiss Cheyne, and conveyed in one inimitable gesture that he wouldtake his coffee from no other hand. 

"The Senorita is staying in Palma?" he asked, pleasantly. 

"Yes. "

"For pleasure?"

"No--for business. "

The innkeeper laughed gaily and deprecatingly, as if between personsof their station business was a word only to be mentioned as a sortof jest. 

"I am the owner of a small property in the island--over in thatdirection--towards Soller. It is held on the 'rotas' system by agood farmer, who has frequently come to see me where I live atMonistrol, near Barcelona. He has often begged me to come toMajorca to see the property, and now I have come. I am staying afew days at Palma. "

"Farming is good in Majorca, " said the man, shrewdly. "You shouldreceive a large sum for your share of the harvest. I, too, shallbuy land presently when I see my chance, for I have the money. Ah, yes: I was not always an innkeeper!"

He sipped his coffee pensively. 

"That reminds me again of my friend, " he said, after a pause. "Whydo I think of him this afternoon? It is a strange story; shall Itell it?"

"I shall be glad to hear it, " replied Miss Cheyne, in her energeticway. She was stirring her coffee slowly and thoughtfully. 

"I knew him in his own country--in America; and then in Cuba--"

Miss Cheyne ceased stirring her coffee suddenly, as if she had comeagainst some object in the cup. A keen observer might have guessedthat she had become interested at that moment in this idle tale. 

"Ah! You know Cuba?" she said, indifferently interrogative. 

"If I know Cuba?" he laughed, and spread out his hands in muteappeal to the gods. "If I know Cuba! When Cuba is an independentrepublic, Senorita--when the history of all this trouble comes to bewritten, you will find two names mentioned in its pages. The onename is Antonio. When you are an old woman, Senorita, you can tellyour children--or perhaps your grandchildren, if the good God iskind to you--that you once knew Antonio, and took a cup of coffeewith him. But you must not say it now--never--never. And the othername is Mateo. You can tell your children, Senorita, when your hairis white, that you once spoke to a man who was a friend to thisMateo. "

He finished with his gay laugh, as if he were fully alive to his ownfine conceit, and begged indulgence. 

"He has been here--sitting where you sit now, " he continued, withimpressive gravity. "He came to me: 'Antonio, ' he said, 'There arefive thousand men out there who want you. ' 'Amigo, ' replied I, 'there is one woman here who does the same'--and I bowed, and Mateowent away without me. I thought he had gone back there to conductaffairs--to fight in his careless way, with his tongue in his cheek, as it were. He did all with his tongue in his cheek--that queerMateo. And then came a message from Barcelona, saying that hewanted me. Name of a dog, I went--for his letter was unmistakable. He had, it appeared, had an accident. I found him with his arm in asling. He had been cared for in the house of an Englishwoman--somuch he told--but I guessed more. This Englishwoman--well, he saidso little about her, that I could only conclude one thing. Youknow, Senorita--when a man will not talk of a woman--well, itassuredly means something. But there was, it appears, another man--this man, I grind my teeth to tell you of it--he was a priest. OneBernaldez, whom we had both known in Cuba. He had, it appears, comeover to Spain in ordinary dress; for he was too well known to travelas Bernaldez, the priest. He was a fine man--so much I will say forhim. The Englishwoman was, no doubt, beautiful. Bernaldez met her. She did not know that he was a priest. "

Antonio paused, shrugged his shoulders and spread out his arms. 

"The devil did the rest, Senorita. And she? Did she care for him?Ah--one never knows with women. "

"Perhaps they do not always know themselves, " suggested Miss Cheyne, without meeting her companion's eyes. 

"Perhaps that is so, Senorita. At all events, Mateo went to thesetwo, when they were together. Mateo was always quick and very calm. He faced Bernaldez, and he told the woman. Then he left them. AndI found him in Barcelona, two days afterwards, living at the Hotelof the Four Nations, like one in his sleep. 'If Bernaldez wantsme, ' he said, 'he knows where to find me. ' And the next dayBernaldez came to us, where we sat in front of the Cafe of the Liceoon the Rambla. 'Mateo, ' he said, 'you will have to fight me. ' AndMateo nodded his head. 'With the revolver. ' Mateo looked up withhis dry smile. 'I will take you at that game, ' he said, 'for nuts'--in the American fashion, Senorita--one of their strange sad jokes. Then Bernaldez sat down--his eyes were hollow; he spoke like one whohas been down to the bottom of misery. 'I know a place, ' he said, 'that will suit our purpose. It is among the mountains, on theborders of Andorra. You take the train from Barcelona to Berga, thediligencia from Berga to Organa. Between Organa and La Seo de Urgelis a bridge called La Puente del Diabolo. I will meet you at thisbridge on foot on Thursday morning at nine o'clock. We can walk upinto the mountains together. I shall bring a small travelling clockwith me. We shall stand it on the ground between us, and when itstrikes, we fire. '"

Antonio had, in the heat of his narrative, leant forward across thetable. With quick gestures he described the whole scene, so thatMiss Cheyne could see it as it had passed before his eyes. 

"There is a madness, Senorita, " he went on, "which shows itself by athirst for blood. I looked at Bernaldez. He was sane enough, but Ithink the man's heart was broken. 'It is well, ' said Mateo; 'I amyour man--at the Puente del Diabolo at nine o'clock on Thursdaymorning. ' And mind you, Senorita, these were not Italians orGreeks--they were a Spaniard and an American--men who mean what theysay, whether it be pleasant or the reverse. "

Miss Cheyne was interested enough now. She sat, leaning one arm onthe table, and her chin in the palm of her hand. She held her lipwith her teeth, and watched the man's quick expressive face. 

"We were there at nine o'clock, " he went on, "that Mateo, with hisarm in a sling. We had passed the night at the hotel of theLibertad at Organa, where we both slept well enough. What willyou?--when one is no longer young, the pulse is slow. The morningmist had descended the mountain side, the air was cold. There atthe Puente, leaning against the wall, cloaked and quiet--wasBernaldez. 'Ah!' he said to me, 'you have come, too?' 'Yes, Amigo, ' I answered, 'but I do not give the word for two friends tolet go at each other. Your little clock can do that. ' He noddedand said nothing. Senorita, I was sorry for the man. Who was Ithat I should judge? You remember, you, who read your Bible, thewriting on the ground? Bernaldez led the way, and we climbed upinto the mountains in the morning mist. Somewhere above us therewas a little waterfall singing its eternal song. In the cloud, where we could not see him, a curlew hung on his heavy wings, andgave forth his low warning whistle. 'Have a care--have a care, ' heseemed to cry. Presently Bernaldez stopped, and looked around him. It was a desolate place. 'This will do, ' he said. 'And he whodrops may be left here. The other may turn on his heel, say "ADios, " and go in safety. 'Yes, ' answered Mateo. 'This will do aswell as any other place. ' Bernaldez looked at him, with a laugh. 'Ah, ' he said, 'you think that you are sure to kill me--but I shall, at all events, have a shot for my money. Who knows? I may killyou. ' 'That is quite possible, ' answered Mateo. Bernaldez threwback his cloak. He carried the little travelling clock in one hand--a gilt thing made in Paris. 'We will stand it here, ' he said, 'ona rock between us. ' We were in a little hollow far up the mountainside, and the mist wrapped us round like a cloak. I know thesemountains, Senorita, for it was here that the fiercest of thefighting in the last Carlist War took place. There are many dead upthere even now, who have never been found. I also was in thattrouble--ah, no, I was not always an innkeeper!"

"Go on with your story, " said Miss Cheyne, curtly, and closed herteeth over her lower lip again. 

"We stood there, then, and watched Bernaldez take the clock from itscase. He held it to his ear to make sure that it was going. Itseemed to me that it ticked as loud up there as a clock ticks in aroom at night. Bernaldez set forward the hands till they stood atfive minutes to eleven. 'The eleventh hour, ' said Mateo, with hisdry laugh. Bernaldez set the clock down again. He took off his hatand threw it down to mark the ground. 'Ten paces, ' he said, and, turning on his heel, counted aloud. I looked half-instinctively athis bared head. The tonsure was still visible to any who sought it;for it was but half-grown over. Mateo counted his steps and thenturned. The clock gave a little tick, as such clocks do, fourminutes before they strike. It seemed to me to hurry its pace as wethree stood listening in that silence. We could hear the whisper ofthe clouds as they hurried through the mountains. The clock gaveanother click, and the two men raised their pistols of a similarpattern. The little gong rang out, and immediately after two shots, one following the other. Bernaldez had fired first. Mateo--a manwith a reputation to care for--took a moment longer for his aim. Iheard Bernaldez's bullet sing past his ear like a mosquito. Bernaldez fell forward--thus, on his arm--and the clock had notceased striking when we stood over him; and Mateo had held thepistol in his left hand. "

The narrator finished abruptly with a quick gesture. All throughhis story he had added a vividness to his description by quickmovements of the hand and head, by his flashing eyes, his southernfire, so that his hearer could see the scene as he had seen it;could feel the stillness of the mountains; could hear the whisper ofthe clouds; could see the two men facing each other in the mist. With a gesture he showed her how Bernaldez lay, on his face on thewet stones, with a half-concealed tonsure, turned towards heaven inmute appeal, awaiting the last great hearing of his case in thatCourt where there is no appeal. 

"And there we left him, Senorita, " added Antonio, shortly. 

He rose, walked away from her to the edge of the great slope, andstood looking down into the valley that lay shimmering below him. After a time he came back slowly. In his simplicity he was notashamed of dimmed eyes. 

"I tell you this, Senorita, " he said with a laugh, "because you arean Englishwoman, and because this Mateo was my friend. He is anAmerican. His name is Whittaker--Matthew S. Whittaker. And thisafternoon I was reminded of him; I know not why. Perhaps it wassomething that I said myself, or some gesture that I made, which Ihad caught from him. If one thinks much about a person, one maycatch his gestures or his manner: is it not so? And then youreminded me of him a second time. That was strange. "

"Yes, " said Miss Cheyne, thoughtfully; "that was strange. "

"He went to Cuba again at once, Senorita; that was a year ago. AndI have never heard from him. If, as the peasants say, the mind of afriend has wings, perhaps Mateo's mind has flown on to tell me thathe is coming. He said he would come back. "

"Why was he coming back?" asked Miss Cheyne. 

"I do not know, Senorita. "

Miss Cheyne had risen, and was making ready to depart. Her glovesand riding-whip lay on the table. The afternoon was far spent, andalready the shadows were lengthening on the mountain-side. She paidthe trifling account, Antonio taking the money with such a deep bowthat the smallness of the coin was quite atoned for. He brought herhorse from the stable. 

"The horse and the Senorita are both tired, " he said, with hispleasant laugh. And, indeed, Miss Cheyne looked suddenly weary. "It is not right that you should go by the mountain path, " he added. "It is so easy to lose the way. Besides, a lady alone--it is notdone in Spain. "

"No; but in England women are learning to take care of themselves, "laughed Miss Cheyne. 

She placed her foot within his curved hands, and he lifted her tothe saddle. All her movements were easy and independent. It seemedthat she only stated a fact, and the man shook his headforebodingly. He belonged to a country which in some ways is acentury behind England and America. She nodded a farewell, andturned the horse's head towards the mountain path. 

"I shall find my way, " she said. "Never fear. "

"Only by good fortune, " he answered, with a shake of the head. 

The sun had almost set when she reached Palma. At the hotel herlawyer, who had made the voyage from Barcelona with her, awaited herwith impatience, while her maid leant idly from the window. In theevening she went abroad again, alone, in her independent way. Shewalked slowly on the Cathedral terrace, where priests lingered, anda few soldiers from the neighbouring barracks smoked a leisurelycigarette. All turned at intervals, and looked in the samedirection--namely, towards the west, where the daylight yet lingeredin the sky. The moon, huge and yellow, was rising over themountains, above Manacor, at the eastern end of the island. One byone the idlers dropped away, moving with leisurely steps towards thetown. In very idleness Miss Cheyne followed them. She knew thatthey were going to the harbour in anticipation of the arrival of theBarcelona steamer. She was on the pier with the others, when theboat came alongside. The passengers trooped off, waving salutationsto their friends. One among them, a small-made, frail man, detachedhimself from the crowd, and made his way towards Miss Cheyne, as ifthis meeting had been prearranged--and who shall say that it wasnot?--by the dim decrees of Fate. 

IN A CROOKED WAY

 "And let the counsel of thine own heart stand. "

It was almost dark, and the Walkham River is much overhung in theparts that lie between Horrabridge and the old brickworks. 

In the bed of the river a man stumbled heavily along, trusting moreto his knowledge of the river than to his eyesight. He was fishingdexterously with flies that were almost white--flies which seemed tosuit admirably the taste of those small brown trout which never havethe sense to leave alone the fare provided for their larger whitebrethren. 

Suddenly he hooked a larger fish, and, not daring to step backbeneath the overhanging oak, he proceeded to tire his fish out inthe deep water. In ten minutes he brought it to the landing-net, and as he turned to open his creel his heart leapt in his breast. Aman was standing in the water not two feet behind him. 

"Holloa, " he gasped. 

"I won't insult you by telling you not to be frightened, " said thevoice of a gentleman. There was no mistaking it. The speaker stoodquite still, with the water bubbling round his legs. He washatless, and his hair was cut quite short. 

A thought flashed across the fisherman's slow brain. Like the restof his craft, he was slower of mind than of hand. 

"Yes, " said the other, divining his thoughts, "I'm from Dartmoor. You probably heard of my escape two days ago. "

"Yes, " replied the other, quietly, while he wound in his line. "Iheard of it. "

"And where do they say I am?"

"Oh, the police have got a clue--as usual, " replied the fisherman. 

The escaped convict laughed bitterly, but the laugh broke off into asickening cackle. 

"I've been in those brickworks, " he said, "all the time, meditatingmurder. I stole a loaf from a baker's cart; but man cannot live bybread alone; ah! Ha! ha!"

The fisherman held out his flask, which the other took, and openedthe somewhat uncommon silver top with ease bred of knowledge. 

He poured himself out a full glass and drank it off. 

"I haven't had that taste in my mouth for four years, " he said, returning the flask. "And you are guilty of felony!"

The fisherman probably knew this, for he merely laughed. 

"Do you know Prince Town?" the convict asked abruptly. 

The other nodded, glancing in the direction of the rising moor. 

"And you've read the rules on the gate? Parcere subjectis, cut inthe stone over the top. Good God!"

The fisherman nodded again. 

"The question is, " said the convict, after a pause, during whichthey had waded back to the bank, "whether you are going to help meor not? Heavens! I NEARLY killed you while you were playing thatfish. "

"Ya-as, " drawled the fisherman. "I take it that you must have beentempted. I never heard you, owing to the rush of the water. "

They were both big men, and the convict stared curiously into thelong, clean-shaven face of this calm speaker. A smile actuallyflickered for a moment in his desperate eyes. 

"What I want, " he said, "is your mackintosh, your waders, and yourhat--also your rod-case with a long stick in it. The handle of yourlanding-net will do. Where do you come from?"

"Plymouth. I am going back by the seven-thirty from Horrabridge. "

"With a return ticket?"

"Yes. "

"I should like that also. "

The fisherman was slowly disjointing his rod. 

"Suppose I told you to come and take 'em?" he said, with the drawlagain. 

The convict looked him up and down with a certain air of competentcriticism. 

"Then there would be a very pretty fight, " he said, with a laugh, which he checked when he detected the savour of the prison-yard thatwas in it. 

"We haven't time for the fight, " said the fisherman. 

And there came a hot gasp of excitement from the convict's lips. His stake was a very large one. 

In the same slow, reflective manner, the fisherman unbuttoned thestraps of his waders at the thigh, and sat down to unlace hisbrogues. 

"Here, " he said, "pull 'em off for me. They're so damnably sopped. "

He held up his leg, and the convict pulled off the wet fishing-stockings with some technical skill. 

He drew them on over his own stockinged legs, and the fishermankicked the brogues towards him. In exchange the convict handed himhis own shoes. 

"Am I to wear these?" the fisherman asked, with something in hisvoice that might have been amusement. 

"Yes; they're a little out of shape, I'm afraid. The Queen is nojudge of a shoe. "

"I guess not!" answered the other, lacing. 

There was a little silence. 

"I suppose, " said the convict, with a curious eagerness, "that youhave seen a bit of the world?"

"Here and there, " answered the other, searching for the return halfof his ticket. 

"Should you think, now, that a girl would wait four years for a chapwho, in the eyes of the world, was not worth waiting for?"

The fisherman, not being an absolute fool, knew that there was onlyone answer to give. But he was a kind-hearted man, so he told alie. There was something about this convict that made him do it. 

"Yes; I should think she would. Girls are not always rational, Iguess. "

The other said nothing. He took the mackintosh-coat and the creeland the rod-case without a word--even of thanks. His manners werebrisker, as if the angler's lie had done him good. The change ofcostume was now complete, and the convict would pass anywhere for aninnocent disciple of Isaac Walton. 

For a moment they stood thus, looking at each other. Then theconvict spoke. 

"Can you lend me a fiver?" he asked. 

"Oh yes!"

Carelessly opening his purse, and displaying a good number of bank-notes, he passed one to the unsteady hand held out. 

"Want any more?" he asked, with a queer laugh. 

"I'll take another if you can spare it. "

A second note passed from hand to hand. 

"Thanks, " said the convict. "Now, tell me your name and address; Ishall want to send these things back to you if--if I have any luck. "

And the effort to steady his voice was quite apparent. 

"Caleb S. Harkness, United States frigate Bruiser, now lying atPlymouth, " replied the other, tersely. 

"Ah! you are an American?"

"That is why I don't care a d---n for your laws. "

"MR. Harkness--or what?"

"I'm her captain, " he replied modestly. 

They shook hands and parted. 

It was only as he plodded along the Tavistock Road, limping in theregulation shoes, that the American remembered that he had quiteomitted to ask the convict any questions. He had parted with hismackintosh, and it was pouring. Tavistock was two miles off, and hehad no notion what trains there were to Plymouth. Yet he regrettednothing, and at times a queer smile flitted over his countenance. He was a man holding very decided views of his own upon mostsubjects, and no one suspected him of it, because he never sought toforce them upon others. What he loved above all in men was thatspecies of audacious and gentlemanly coolness which is found ingreater perfection in the ranks of the British aristocracy thananywhere else in the world. 

He was not the sort of man to be afraid of any one, or two, or threemen--he had never, for a moment, thought of fearing the fellow whohad gone off with his mackintosh, his waders, and his two five-poundnotes. We all try to be our ideal, and Caleb S. Harkness pridedhimself on being the coolest man in the two hemispheres. He had meta cooler, and rather than acknowledge his inferiority he had partedwith the valuables above mentioned, with no other guarantee of theirsafe return than a gentlemanly inflection of voice. 

Two days later he received his waders, mackintosh, and brogues; alsoa new fishing-rod of the very best quality made in England, and twofive-pound notes. 

America loves to show her appreciation of her great sons, but shedoes not always do it wisely when she begins to cast honours about. If England showed the same appreciation, some of us would not be socruelly industrious with our pens; but that is the affair of theBritish public, who suffer most. 

Caleb S. Harkness was bound to get on. Firstly, because hisaudacity was unrivalled, and secondly, he knew it was wise to beaudacious. 

In due course he rose as high as he conveniently could in the Navyactive, and turned his attention to the Navy passive, which lattermeans a nice little house in Washington, and the open arms of thebest society in that enlightened city. Here also he got on, becausemen were even more impressed by his audacity than the sea had been. Also he developed a new talent. He found within himself an immensecapacity for making others appear ridiculous, and there is no man inthe world so sensitive as your American senator. 

Thus in six years' time we find Caleb S. Harkness moving, not in thebed of an English trout-stream, but in the lap of Washingtonianluxury. It was a great night in the Government city, for Englandhad sent one of her brightest stars to meet the luminaries of theUnited States in peaceful arbitration. The British Plenipotentiaryhad not yet been seen of the multitude--but he was the eldest son ofa British Earl, and had a title of his own. That was enough forWashington, with some to spare for Boston and New York. Also he hadproved himself equal to two American statesmen and their respectivesecretaries. He was, therefore, held in the highest esteem by allthe political parties except that to which the worsted statesmenbelonged. 

The President's levee was better attended than usual; that is tosay, there was not even room on the stairs, and America's first-born, as per election, had long ago lost all feeling in the digitsof his right hand. 

Caleb S. Harkness was moving about in the quieter rooms, awaitingthe great crush, when a lady and a man entered and looked aroundthem with some amusement. 

"Lord!" ejaculated Admiral Harkness, when his slow and mournful eyesrested on the lady. The exclamation, if profane, was justified, forit is probable that the American had never before set eyes on such amasterpiece of the Creator's power. There was in this woman'sbeing--in her eyes, her face, her every movement--that combinationof nonchalance and dignity which comes to beautiful and bright-minded girls when they are beginning to leave girlhood behind them. She was moderately tall, with hair of living brown, and deep blueeyes full of life and sweetness. She was not slim, but held herselflike a boy with the strength that comes of perfect proportion. Shewas one of those women who set a soldier or a sailor thinking whatmanner of men her brothers must be. 

Caleb Harkness observed all this with the unobtrusive scrutiny ofhis nation. He was standing near a curtained doorway buttoning hisglove, and some one coming behind him pushed against him. 

"Beg pardon, Harkness, " said a voice, and the Chief Secretary of theEnglish Legation patted him on the shoulder. "Didn't see you. Looking for some one. By George, what a heat! Ah! there he is--thank goodness!"

And he went towards the lady and man who had just entered. 

"Here, Monty, you're wanted at once, " Harkness heard him say to theyouth, who appeared to be a few years younger than his beautifulcompanion. 

He spoke a few words to the lady, who replied laughingly, and theBritish Attache came towards Harkness. 

"Harkness, " he said; "want to introduce you to Lady Storrel. "

The American followed with a smile on his lean face. He knew thathe was being introduced to Lady Storrel merely because therehappened to be no one else at hand and her cavalier was wantedelsewhere. 

"Lady Storrel, let me present to you Admiral Harkness, the man, " headded, over his shoulder, "who is going to make the United Statesthe first Naval Power in the world. "

And with a good-natured laugh the two men went off, speakinghurriedly together. 

"Is that true?" asked the lady, smiling with that mixture ofgirlishness and English grand-ladyism, which was so new to Caleb S. Harkness. 

"Quite, " he answered; "but I am not going to tell you how. "

"No, please don't. Of course, you are an American?"

"Yes; but you need not mind that. "

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him frankly. 

"I take it, " he answered, with a twinkle in his grave eyes, whichshe saw, and liked him for, "that you want some one to listen toyour impressions of--all this. It IS rum, is it not?"

She laughed. "Yes, " she admitted, "it is--RUM. "

In a few minutes they had found a seat beneath a marvellous stand offlowers, and she was chattering away like a schoolgirl while helistened, and added here and there a keen comment or a humoroussuggestion. 

Presently she began talking of herself, and in natural sequence ofher husband, of their home in England, of his career, and her hatredof politics. 

"And, " she said suddenly, at the end of it, "here IS my husband. "

Harkness followed the direction of her glance, and looked upon a manin English Court-dress coming towards them. 

"Ah!" he said, in a peculiar, dull voice, "that is your husband?"

She was smiling upon the man who approached, beckoning to him tocome with her eyes, as women sometimes do. She turned sharply uponHarkness, her attention caught by something in his voice. 

"Yes?" she answered. 

Harkness had risen with a clatter of his sword on the polishedfloor, and stood awaiting the introduction. 

"My husband--Admiral Harkness. "

The men bowed, and, before they could exchange a banal observation, the fair young man who had been called away came up. 

"Phew, this is worse than Simla, " he said; then, offering his arm toLady Storrel, "Alice, " he continued, "I have discovered some ices, THE most lovely ices. "

They moved away, the lady favouring Harkness with a little nod, leaving the two tallest men in that assembly facing each other. 

When they were gone, Caleb S. Harkness and Lord Storrel looked intoeach other's eyes. 

"So, " said Harkness, lapsing suddenly into a twang, "she waited. "

The other nodded. He raised his perfectly gloved hand to hismoustache, which he tugged pensively to either side. 

"Yes, " he answered; "she waited. "

Then he looked round the room, and, seeing that they were almostalone, he moved towards the seat just vacated by his wife. 

"Come and sit down, " he said, "and I will tell you a little story. "

"Does she know it?" enquired Harkness, when they were seated. 

"No. "

"Then I don't want to hear it! You'd better keep it to yourself, Ireckon. "

The Englishman gave a little laugh, and lapsed into silence--thinking abstractedly. 

"I should like to tell you some of it, for my own sake. I don'twant you to go away thinking--something that is not the fact. "

"I would rather not have the story, " persisted Harkness. ThisAmerican had some strange notions of a bygone virtue calledchivalry. "Give me a few facts--I will string them together. "

Lord Storrel was sitting forward on his low chair, with his handsclasped between his knees. They were rather large hands--suggestiveof manual labour. 

"Suppose, " he said, without looking round, "that a man is in astreet row in Dublin, when no one knows he is even in the town. Suppose the--eh--English side of the question is getting battered, and he hits out and kills a drunken beast of an Irish agitator. Suppose an innocent man is accused of it and the right chap isforced to come forward and show up UNDER A FALSE NAME and gets fiveyears. Suppose he escapes after three and a half, and goes home, saying that he has been in America, cattle ranching--having alwaysbeen a scapegrace, and a ne'er-do-well, who never wrote home when hehad gone off in a huff. Suppose he had tried all this for the sakeof--a girl, and had carried it through--"

Caleb Harkness had discovered that the identity of the BritishPlenipotentiary had become known to some of the more curious of thePresident's guests, who were now mooning innocently around them asthey sat. He moved in his chair as if to rise. 

"Yes--I can suppose all that, " he said. 

The Englishman's nerve was marvellous. He saw what Harkness hadseen a moment before, and over his face came the bland smile of anintelligent English man talking naval matters with an Americanadmiral. 

"Of course, " he said, "I am at your mercy. "

"I was at yours once; so now we are quits, I take it. "

And the two big men rose and passed out of the room together. 

THE TALE OF A SCORPION

Spain is a country where custom reigns supreme. The wonder of to-day is by to-morrow a matter of indifference. 

The man who came a second time to the Cafe Carmona in the CalleVelasquez in Seville must have known this; else the politelysurprised looks, the furtive glances, the whisperings that met hisfirst visit would have sent him to some other house of mildentertainment. The truth was that the Cafe Carmona was, and isstill, select; with that somewhat narrow distinctiveness which isobserved by such as have no friendly feelings towards theauthorities that be. 

It is a small Cafe, and foreigners had better not look for it. Yetthis man was a foreigner--in fact an Englishman. He was one ofthose quiet, unobtrusive men, who are taller than they look, andmore important than they care to be considered. He could, forinstance, pass down the crowded Sierpe of an evening, without somuch as attracting a glance; for, by a few alterations in dress, heconverted his outward appearance into that of a Spaniard. He wasnaturally dark, and for reasons of his own he spared the razor. Hisface was brown, his features good, and a hat with a flat brim iseasily bought. Thus this man passed out of his hotel door in theevening the facsimile of a dozen others walking in the same street. 

Moreover, he had no great reason for doing this. He preferred, hesaid, to pass unnoticed. But at the Foreign Office it was knownthat no man knew Spain as Cartoner knew it. Some men are so. Theytake their work seriously. Cartoner had looked on the map of Europesome years before for a country little known of the multitude, andof which the knowledge might prove to be of value. His eye lightedon Spain; and he spent his next leave there, and the next, and soon. 

Consequently there was no one at the Foreign Office who could hold acandle to Cartoner in matters Spanish. That is already something--to have that said of one. He is a wise man nowadays who knowssomething (however small it be) better than his neighbour. Like allhis kind, this wise man kept his knowledge fresh. He was stilllearning--he was studying at the Cafe Carmona in the little streetin Seville, called Velasquez. 

When he pushed the inner glass door open and lounged into the smoke-filled room, the waiter, cigarette in mouth, nodded in a friendlyway without betraying surprise. One or two old habitues glanced athim, and returned to the perusal of La Libertad or El Imparcialwithout being greatly interested. The stranger had come the nightbefore. He liked the place--the coffee suited his taste--"y bien, "let him come again. 

The waiter came forward without removing the cigarette from hislips; which was already a step. It placed this new-comer on a levelwith the older frequenters of the Carmona. 

"Cafe?" he inquired. 

"Cafe!" replied the stranger, who spoke little. 

He had selected a little table standing rather isolated at one endof the room, and he sat with his back to the wall. The whole CafeCarmona lay before him, and through the smoke of his cigarette helooked with quiet, unobtrusive eyes, studying . . . Studying. 

Presently an old man entered. This little table was his by right ofprecedence. He had been sitting at it the night before when theEnglishman had elected to sit beside him; bowing as he did so in theSpanish manner, and clapping his hands in the way of Spain, to callthe waiter when he was seated. 

It was this evening the turn of the old man to bow, and theEnglishman returned his salutation. They sat some time in silence, but when Cartoner passed the sugar the innate politeness of theSpaniard perceived the call for conversation. 

"His Excellency is not of Seville?" he said, with a pleasant smileon his wrinkled, clean-shaven face. 

"No; I am an Englishman. "

"Oh!"

The keen old face hardened suddenly, until the features were likethe wrinkles of a walnut; and the Spaniard drew himself up with allthe dignity of his race. 

The quiet eyes of Cartoner of the Foreign Office never left hisface. Cartoner was surprised; for he knew Spain--he was aware thatthe Peninsular War had not been forgotten. He had never, inwhatsoever place or situation, found it expedient to conceal hisnationality. 

The old Spaniard slowly unfolded his cloak, betraying the shabbinessof its crimson plush lining. He lighted a cigarette, and then thenational sense of politeness prevailed against personal feeling. 

"His Excellency knows Gibraltar?"

"I have been there. "

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing more. "

"Pardon me, " said the old man, with a grave bow. "I thought--theSpanish of His Excellency misled me. "

The Englishman laughed quietly. "You took me for a scorpion, " hesaid. "I am not that. I learnt your language here and in themountains of Andalusia. "

"Then, I beg the pardon of His Excellency. "

Cartoner made a Spanish gesture with his hand and shoulders, indicating that no such pardon was called for. 

"Like you, " he said, "I do not love the Scorpion. "

The Spaniard's eyes lighted up with a gleam which was hardlypleasant to look upon. 

"I HATE them, " he hissed, bringing his face close to the quiet eyes;and the Spanish word means more than ours. 

Then he threw himself back in his chair with an upward jerk of thehead. 

"I have good reason to do so, " he added. "I sometimes wonder why Iever speak to an Englishman; for they resemble you in some things, these Scorpions. This one had a fair moustache, blue eyes, clean-cut features, like some of those from the North. But he was notlarge, this one--the Rock does not breed a large race. They aremean little men, with small white hands and women's feet. Ah, God!how I hate them all!"

The Englishman took a fresh cigarette from a Russia leather case, and pushed the remainder across the table for his companion to helphimself when he had finished mashing the crooked paper between hislips. 

"I know your language, " the Spaniard went on, "as well almost as youknow mine. But I do not speak it now. It burns my throat--ithurts. "

Cartoner lighted his cigarette. He betrayed not the smallestfeeling of curiosity. It was marvellous how he had acquired themanner of these self-contained Sons of the Peninsula. 

"I will tell it. "

The Englishman leant his elbow on the table, and his chin within hishand, gazing indifferently out over the marble tables of the CafeCarmona. The men seated there interchanged glances. They knew fromthe fierce old face, from the free and dramatic gestures, that oldPedro Roldos was already telling his story to the stranger. 

"Santa Maria!" the old man was saying. "It is not a pleasant story. I lived at Algeciras--I and my little girl, Lorenza. Too near theRock--too near the Rock. You know what we are there. I had abusiness--the contraband, of course--and sometimes I was absent fordays together. But Lorenza was a favourite with the neighbours--good women who had known my wife when she was the beauty of St. Roque--just such a girl as Lorenza. And I trusted Lorenza; for weare all so. We trust and trust, and yet we know that love and moneywill kill honesty and truth at any moment. These two are sacred--more sacred than honesty or truth. Diavolo! What a fool I was. Iought to have known that Lorenza was too pretty to be left alone--ignorant as she was of the ways of the world. 

"Then the neighbours began to throw out hints. They spoke of theEnglish Caballero, who was so fond of riding round the Bay, and theyhinted that it was not to see our old town of Algeciras that hecame. 

"One night I came home after a successful journey. I had been asfar as Buceita with a train of five mules--a clear run. When Iopened the door Lorenza was gone. Mother of God! gone--gone withouta word! I went and fetched Nino--Nino, whose father had been mypartner until he was shot by the Guardia Civile one night in themountain behind Gaucin. There was no one like Nino for mule work inthe mountains or for the handling of a boat when the west wind blewacross the Bay. Nino, whom I wanted for a son-in-law, having noNino of my own. I told him. He said nothing, but followed me tothe quay and we got the boat out. In half an hour I was at theoffice of the Chief of the Police at Gibraltar. We sat there allnight, Nino and I. By ten o'clock the next morning we knew that itwas not one of the English officers--nor any civilian living on theRock. 'It may, ' said the Chief of Police, who seemed to know everyone in his little district, 'be a passing stranger or--or aScorpion. We do not know so much about them. We cannot penetrateto their houses. ' I gave him a description of Lorenza; he undertookto communicate with England and with the Spanish police. And Ninoand I went back to our work. It is thus with us poor people. Ourhearts break--all that is worth having goes from our lives, and theend of it is the same; we go back to our work. "

The old man paused. His cigarette had gone out long ago. Herelighted it and smoked fiercely in silence for some moments. Cartoner made a sign to the waiter, who, with the intelligence ofhis race, brought a decanter of the wine which he knew the Spaniardpreferred. 

During all the above relation Cartoner had never uttered a syllable. At the more violent points he had given a sympathetic little nod ofthe head--nothing more. 

"It was from that moment that I began to learn the differencebetween Englishmen and Scorpions, " Pedro Roldos went on. "Up tothen I had not known that it made a difference being born on theRock or in England. I did not know what a Scorpion was--with allthe vices of England and Spain in one undersized body. I hauntedthe Rock. I learnt English. All to no avail. Lorenza was gone. Nino never said anything--he merely stayed by my side--but I thinkthat something--some fibre had broken within him while he held thesheet that first night, sailing across the Bay in a gale of wind. 

"Thus--for a year. Then came a letter from Cadiz. Lorenza wasthere, alone with her child. Her husband had deserted her inEngland, and she had got back to Cadiz. We went to her, Nino and I, in our boat. We brought her back; but she was no longer Lorenza. Our grief, our love were nothing to her. She was like a woman hewnout of marble. Maria! how I hated that man! You cannot understand--you Englishmen. Though there is something in your eyes, senor, which makes me think that you too could have felt as I did. 

"From Lorenza I learnt his name, and without telling her, I wentacross to Gibraltar. I inquired and found that he was there--therein Gibraltar. Almost within my grasp--think of that! At once I wascunning. For we are a simple people, except when we love or hate!"

"Yes, " said Cartoner, speaking for the first time. "I know. "

"In an hour I knew where he lived. His father was an English groomwho had set up large breeding stables in Gibraltar, and was a richman. The son had the pretension of being a gentleman. He had beenin England they told me for a year, buying stud-horses--and--andsomething else. He was married. Ah-ha! He had been married threeyears before he ever saw Lorenza, and the ceremony which had beenobserved in the English Church at Seville was a farce. My heart washot within me; hot with the hatred for this man, and I sat in theCafe Universal, which you know! Yes, you know everything. I satthere thinking of how I should kill him--slowly, taking my own time--talking to him all the while. 

"What I had learnt was no more than I expected. The woman (hiswife), it appeared, was the daughter of a merchant at Gibraltar. They were a whole nest of Scorpions. I went back to Algeciras, andsaid nothing then to Lorenza. The next night I heard by chance thathe and his wife and children had taken passage in a steamer thatsailed for England in two days. Madre de Dio! he nearly slippedthrough our fingers. It was not a P. And O. Ship: the passengershad to take a boat from the Old Mole, which is always crowded withAlgeciras boats and others. Nino and I sailed across there andwaited among the small craft. We saw the woman (his wife) and thechildren go on board in the afternoon. In the evening he came. Ihad arranged it with the licensed boatmen; a few pesetas did that. Our boat was nearest the steps. In the dim light of the quay lamphe noticed nothing, but stepped over the gunwale and mentioned thename of his steamer in a quick way, which he thought was that of theEnglish. 

"Nino took the oars, and when we were round the pier head we hoistedthe sail. Then I spoke. 

"'I am the father of Lorenza Roldos, ' I said, 'and that man is Nino, her cortejo. We are going to kill you. '

"He started up, and was about to raise a cry, when Nino whipped outhis country knife. We carry them, you know. "

"Yes, " said Cartoner, speaking for the second time, "I know. "

He was watching the old man now beneath the shadow of his hand. 

"'If you raise your voice, ' I said, 'Nino will put his knife throughyour throat. '

"I saw him glance sideways at the water. 

"'You would have no chance that way, ' I said; 'I would turn the boaton you, and run you down. '

"He gave a sort of gasp, and I had the happiness of hearing histeeth chatter. 

"'I have money, ' he said, in his thin, weak voice; 'not here, onboard. '

"We said nothing, but I hauled in the sheet a little, and ran forthe Europa light. 

"'We are going to kill you, ' I said quietly, without hurry. 

"We landed just beyond the lighthouse, where there are no sentinels, and we made him walk up the Europa Road past the Governor's house. Nino's knife was within two inches of his throat all the while. Ithink he knew that his end was near. You know the Third EuropaAdvance Battery?"

"Yes, " answered Cartoner. 

"The cliff recedes there. There is a drop of four hundred metres, and then deep water. "

"Yes, I know. "

"It was there, " hissed the old Spaniard, with a terrible gleam inhis eyes. "We sat there on the low walk, and I spoke to him. As wecame along, Nino had said to me in our dialect: 'With a man likethis, fear is better than pain;' and I knew that he was right. 

"We did not touch him with our knives. We merely spoke to him. Andthen we began quietly making our arrangements. That man died ahundred times in the ten minutes wherein we ballasted him. We tiedheavy stones upon his body--we filled his pockets with smaller ones. We left his arms free, but to the palm of each hand we bound a stoneas large as my head. The same to each foot. 

"Then I said, 'Lie down! Hands and legs straight out! It is onlyright that a Scorpion should die from his own rock, and taking somesouvenirs with him. '

"I took his arms and Nino his feet. We swung him three times, andlet him fly into the darkness. 

"And Lorenza never forgave us. She told me that she loved himstill. One never comes to understand a woman!"

ON THE ROCKS

 "For they are blest that have not much to rue - That have not oft misheard the prompter's cue. "

The gale was apparently at its height--that is to say, it wasblowing harder than it had blown all through the night. But thosewhose business is on the great waters know that a gale usuallyfinishes its wrath in a few wild squalls. "'Tis getting puffy, " thesailors say; "'tis nearly over. "

A man hurrying through the narrow main street of Yport was thrownagainst the shutters of the little baker's shop on the left-handside, and stood there gasping for breath. 

"Mon Dieu!" he muttered. "It's a dog's night. "

And he wiped the rain from his face. The wind, which blew from awild north-west, roared against the towering cliffs, and from eastand west concentrated itself funnel-wise on the gap where Yportlies. Out seaward there was a queer, ghostly light lying on theface of the waters--the storm-light--and landsmen rarely see it. For the sea was beaten into unbroken foam. The man, who was clad inoilskins, was in the neck of the funnel. Overhead, he heard thewind roaring through the pines far up on the slope of the narrowvalley--close at hand, a continuous whistle told of its passageacross the housetops. The man steadied himself with his left hand. He had but one, and he cursed the empty sleeve which flapped acrosshis face. 

"Provided, " he muttered, "that I can waken that cure. "

He crept on, while the gale paused to take breath, and a momentlater cowered in the porch of a little yellow house. He kicked thedoor with his heel and then waited, with his ear to the greatkeyhole. Surely the cure must have been a good man to sleep in sucha night. The street had naturally been deserted, for it was nearlythree o'clock in the morning, and dawn could not be far off. 

"A one-armed man and a priest!" said the man to himself, with anexpressive jerk of the head. And, indeed, all the men of Yport hadsailed for the Northern fisheries, leaving the village to the womenand children, and the maimed. 

Within the house there were sounds of some one astir. 

"One comes!" cried a cheery voice belonging assuredly to some onewho was brave, for none expects to be called from his bed to heargood news. A single bolt was drawn and the door thrown open. Thecure--a little man--stood back, shading the candle with his hand. 

"Ah, Jean Belfort! it is you. "

"Yes, I and my one arm, " replied the man, coming in and closing thedoor. The rain dripped from his oilskins to the clean floor. 

"Ah, but this is no night to complain. Better be on shore with onearm than at sea with two to-night. "

The little cure looked at his visitor with bright eyes, and a shakeof the head. A quick-spoken man this, with a little square mouth, asoft heart, a keen sense of humour. 

"Why have you got me from my bed, malcontent?" he asked. 

"Because there are some out there that want your prayers, " repliedBelfort, jerking his head towards the sea. He was an unbeliever, this maimed sailor, who read the Petit Journal, and talked tooloudly in the Cafe de la Marine of an evening. He spoke mockinglynow. 

"One can pray in the morning. Come with me while I get on someclothes--if it is a wreck, " said the priest, simply. 

The man followed him to a little bare room, of which the walls weredecorated by two cheap sacred prints and a crucifix, such as may bebought for ten sous at any fair on the coast. 

"Never mind your hat, " said the priest, seeing the man's fingers atthe strings of his sou'wester. "Give me my great boots from thecupboard. A wreck is it? The summer storms are always the worst. Is it a boat?"

"Who knows?" replied the man. "It is my wife who looked from thewindow an hour ago, and saw a light at sea two points to the east ofnorth--a red light and then a green and then the masthead light. "

"A steamer. "

"So it would appear; and now there are no lights. That is all. "

The priest was dressed, and now pulled on a great oilskin coat. There are men who seem compact in mind and body, impressing theirfellows with a sense of that restfulness which comes of assuredstrength. This little priest was one of these, and the mentalimpress that he left upon all who came in contact with him was tothe effect that there is nothing in a human life that need appal, nosorrow beyond the reach of consolation--no temptation too strong tobe resisted. The children ran after him in the streets, their facesexpectant of a joke. The women in the doorways gave a little sighas he passed. A woman will often sigh at the thought of that whichanother woman has lost, and this touches a whole gamut of thoughtswhich are above the reach of a man's mind. 

The priest tied the strings of a sou'wester under his pink chin. Hewas little more than a boy after all--or else he was the possessorof a very young heart. 

"Between us we make a whole man--you and I, " he said cheerily. "Perhaps we can do something. "

They went out into the night, the priest locking the door andpausing to hide the key under the mat in the porch. They all keepthe house-door key under the mat at Yport. In the narrow street, which forms the whole village, running down the valley to the sea, they met the full force of the gale, and stood for a momentbreathlessly fighting against it. In a lull they pushed on. 

"And the tide?" shouted the priest. 

"It is high at four o'clock--a spring tide, and the wind in thenorth-west--not standing room on the shore against the cliff for aman from here to Glainval. "

At high tide the waves beat against the towering cliff all alongthis grim coast, and a man standing on the turf may not recognizehis son on the rocks below, while the human voice can only span thedistance in calmest weather. There are spaces of three and fourmiles between the gaps in the great and inaccessible bluffs. Anevil lee-shore to have under one's quarter--one of the waste placesof the world which Nature has set apart for her own use. WhenNature speaks it is with no uncertain voice. 

"There is old Loisette, " shouted the cure. "He may have gone to bedsober. "

"There is no reason to suppose it, " shouted the man in reply. "No, my father, if there is aught to be done, you and I must do it. "

What with the wind and the flannel ear-flaps of the sou'wester, itwas hard to make one's self heard, and the two faces almost touched--the unbeliever who knew so little, and the priest who knew not onlybooks but men. They made their way to the little quay, or, rather, the few yards of sea-wall that protect the houses at the corner ofthe street. But here they could not stand, and were forced toretire to the lee side of the Hotel de la Plage, which, as all know, stands at the corner, with two timorous windows turned seaward, andall the rest seeking the comfort of the street. 

In a few words Belfort explained where the light had been seen, andwhere, according to his judgment, the steamer must have taken therocks. 

"If the good God has farther use for any of them, he will throw themon the shore a kilometre to the east of us, where the wire ropedescends from the cliff to the shore for the seaweed, " said thepriest. 

The other nodded. 

"What must be done must be done quickly. Let us go, " said thelittle cure in his rather bustling manner, at which the great, slow-limbed fishermen were wont to laugh. 

"Where to?"

"Along the shore. "

"With a rising tide racing in before a north-westerly wind?" saidBelfort, grimly, and shook his head. 

"Why not? You have your two legs, and there is Some One--up there!"

"I shouldn't have thought it, " answered the man, glancing up at thestorm-driven clouds. "However, where a priest can go a one-armedman can surely follow. We need lanterns and a bottle of brandy. "

"Yes; I will wait and watch here while you fetch them. "

The priest, left alone, peered round the corner, shading his eyeswith his soft, white hand, upon which the cold rain pattered. Tothe east of him he knew that there were three miles of almostimpassable shore, of unbroken, unscalable cliff. To the west of himthe same. On the one hand Fecamp, five miles away by a cliff paththat none would attempt by night, nine miles by road. On the otherhand Etretat, still further by road and cliff path. Inland a fewfarms and many miles of forest. He and Belfort had stumbled overthe fallen telegraph wires as they struggled down the villagestreet. No; if there was a wreck out there in the darkness, andmen, clinging half-drowned to the rigging, were looking towards theshore, they had better look elsewhere. The sea, like the wind, treated Yport as the mouth of a funnel, and a hundred cross currentswere piling up such waves as no boat could pass, though the Yportwomen were skilful as any man with oar or sail. 

Presently Belfort returned carrying two lanterns. 

"I have told her that we will not quit the seawall, " he said with ashort laugh. 

And straightway they both clambered over the wall and down the ironladder to the beach. A meandering, narrow pathway is worn on theweed-grown chalk from the village to the washing-ground on thebeach, a mile to the eastward, where, at low tide, a spring of freshwater wells up amid the shingle and the rock. Along this pathwaythe two men made their way, the cure following on his companion'sheel. They stumbled and fell many times. At every step theyslipped, for their boots were soaked, and the chalk was greasy andhalf decomposed by the salt water. At times they paused to listen, and through the roar of the wind and sea came the distant note of abell clanging continuously. 

"It is the bell on Fecamp pier, " said Belfort. "The mist is comingbefore the dawn. "

To the east the long arm of Fecamp light swung slowly round thehorizon, from the summit of the great bluff of Notre Dame du Salut, as if sweeping the sea and elbowing away all that dared approach sogrim a coast. 

"Ah!" exclaimed the priest, "I am in the water--the tide is comingup. "

To their left a wall of foam and spray shut off all view of the sea. On the right the cliff rose, a vast barrier, and cut the sky in two. These two men had nothing in common. They had, indeed, standingbetween them that sword which was brought into the world nineteenhundred years ago, and is still unsheathed. But neither thought ofturning back. It had been agreed between them that they should makewhat speed they could along the shore, and only turn back at thelast moment, searching the sea and beach as they returned in thelight of dawn. 

Belfort, the leader, the expert in night and tide and wind, led theway with one eye on the sea, the other on the eastern sky, which wasnow showing grey through tossing clouds. 

"Here we must turn, " he said suddenly, "and the last half-mile tothe sea-wall we shall have to wade. "

They paused and looked up to the sky. In half an hour the day wouldcome, but in seventy minutes the breakers must beat against thesheer cliff. 

"None has reached the shore alive and with his senses, " saidBelfort, looking out to sea. "He would have seen our lights andcome to us, or called if he had broken limbs. It is useless tosearch the shore too closely. We shall find them here at the edge, half in, half out, especially those with life belts, such as we findany winter morning after bad weather. "

He spoke grimly, as one who knew that it is not the deep sea thatmust be paid its toll, but the shoal water where the rocks andquicksands and crabs and gulls are waiting. They made their wayback in silence, and slowly a new grey day crept into life. At lastthey could see the horizon and read the face of the water still torninto a seething chaos of foam. There was no ship upon them. Ifthere had been a wreck the storm had done its work thoroughly. Belfort climbed to the summit of a rock, and looked back towardsFecamp. Then he turned and searched the shore towards Yport. 

"There is one, " he cried, "half in, half out, as I said. We shallcheat the crabs at all events, my father. "

And clambering down, he stumbled on with a reckless haste thatcontrasted strangely with his speech. For, whatever our words maybe, a human life must ever command respect. Any may (as some havedone) die laughing, but his last sight must necessarily be of gravefaces. 

"This one is not dead, " said the priest, when they had turned theman over and dragged him to dry land. Belfort cut away the life-belt, examining it as he did so. 

"No name, " he said. "They will have to wait over there in London, till he can tell them what ship it was. See, he has been struck onthe head. But he is alive--a marvel. "

He looked up, meeting the priest's eyes, and, remembering his wordsspoken under the lee of the wall of the Hotel de la Plage, helaughed as a fencer may laugh who has been touched beyond doubt by askilful adversary. 

"He is a small-made man and light enough to carry--some town mousethis, my father--who has never had a wet jacket before--see his facehow white it is, and his little arms and hands. We can carry him, turn and turn about, and shall reach the sea-wall before the tide isup, provided we find no more. "

It was full daylight when they at length reached the weed-grownsteps at the side of the sea-wall, and the smoke was alreadybeginning to rise from the chimneys of Yport. The gale was waningas the day came, but the sea was at its highest, and all the housesfacing northward had their wooden shutters up. The waves werebreaking over the sea-wall, but the two men with their senselessburden took no heed of it. They were all past thinking of saltwater. 

In answer to their summons, the Mother Senneville came hastilyenough to the back door of the Hotel de la Plage--a small inn of nogreat promise. The Mother Senneville was a great woman, six feethigh, with the carriage of a Grenadier, the calm eye of someruminating animal, the soft, deep voice, and perhaps the soft heart, of a giant. 

"Already!" she said simply, as she held the door back for them topass in. "I thought there would likely be some this morning withoutthe money in their pockets. "

"This one will not call too loud for his coffee, " replied Belfort, with a cynicism specially assumed for the benefit of the cure. "Andnow, " he added, as they laid their burden on the wine-stained table, "if he has papers that will tell us the name of the ship, I willwalk to Fecamp, to Lloyds' agents there, with the news. It will bea five-franc piece in my pocket. "

They hastily searched the dripping clothing, and found a crumpledenvelope, which, however, told them all they desired to know. Itwas addressed to Mr. Albert Robinson, steamship Ocean Waif, Southampton. 

"That will suffice, " said Belfort. "I take this and leave the restto you and Mother Senneville. "

"Send the doctor from Fecamp, " said the woman--"the new one in theRue du Bac. It is the young ones that work best for nothing, andhere is no payment for any of us. "

"Not now, " said the priest. 

"Ah!" cried Belfort, tossing off the brandy, which the MotherSenneville had poured out for him. "You--you expect so much in theHereafter, Mr. The Cure. "

"And you--you expect so much in the present, Mr. The one-armedmalcontent, " replied the priest, with his comfortable little laugh. "Come, Madame Senneville. Let me get this man to bed. "

"It is an Englishman, of course, " said the Mother Senneville, examining the placid white face. "They throw their dead about theworld like cigar-ends. "

By midday the news was in the London streets, and the talk was allof storms and wrecks and gallant rescues. And a few whose concernit was noted the fact that the Ocean Waif, of London, on a voyagefrom Antwerp and Southampton to the River Plate, had supposedly beenwrecked off the north coast of France. Sole survivor, AlbertRobinson, apparently a fireman or a steward, who lay at the Hotel dela Plage at Yport, unconscious, and suffering from a severeconcussion of the brain. By midday, also, the cure was establishedas sick nurse in the back bedroom of the little hotel with anEnglish conversation-book, borrowed from the schoolmaster, protruding from the pocket of his soutane, awaiting the return ofAlbert Robinson's inner consciousness. 

"Are you feeling better?" the cure had all ready to fire off at himas soon as he awoke. To which the conversation-book made reply:"Yes, but I have caught a severe chill on the mountain, " which alsothe cure had made ready to understand--with modifications. 

But the day passed away without any use having been found for theconversation-book. And sundry persons, whose business it was, cameand looked at Albert Robinson, and talked to the priest and to JeanBelfort--who, to tell the truth, made much capital and a number offree glasses of red wine out of the incident--and went away again. 

The cure passed that night on the second bed of the back bedroom ofthe Hotel de la Plage, and awoke only at daylight, full of self-reproach, to find his charge still unconscious, still placid like astatue, with cheeks a little hollower, and lips a little whiter. The young doctor came and shook his head, and discoursed of othercases of a similar nature which he had read up since the previousday, and pretended now to have remembered among his experiences. Healso went away again, and Yport seemed to drop out of the world oncemore into that oblivion to which a village with such a poor seafront and no railway station, or lodging houses, or hotels wherethere are waiters, must expect to be consigned. 

The cure had just finished his dejeuner of fish and an omelette--theday being Friday--when a carriage rattled down the village street, leaving behind it doorways suddenly occupied by the femalepopulation of Yport wiping its hands upon its apron. 

"It is Francois Morin's carriage from Fecamp, " said the MotherSenneville, "with a Parisienne, who has a parasol, if you please. "

"No, " corrected the cure; "that is an Englishwoman. I saw severallast year in Rouen. "

And he hurried out, hatless, conversation-book in hand. He wasrather taken aback--never having spoken to a person so well-dressedas this English girl, who nodded quickly in answer to hissalutation. 

"Is this the hotel? Is he here? Is he conscious yet?" she asked intolerable French. 

"Yes--madam. He is here, but he is not conscious yet. The doctor--"

"I am not madam--I am mademoiselle. I am his sister, " said thegirl, quickly descending from the carriage and frankly accepting theassistance of the cure's rather timid hand. 

He followed her meekly, wondering at her complete self-possession--at an utter lack of ceremony--at a certain blunt frankness which wasnew to Yport. She nodded to Madame Senneville. 

"Where is he?" she asked. 

"Monsieur le Cure will show you. It is he who has saved his life. "

The young lady turned and looked into the priest's pink face, whichgrew pinker. This was not the material of which gallant rescuersare usually made. 

"Thank you, Monsieur le Cure, " she said, with a sudden gentleness. "Thank you. It is so difficult--is it not?--to thank any one. "

"There is not the necessity, " murmured the little cure, ratherconfusedly; and he led the way upstairs. 

Once in the sick-room he found his tongue again, and explainedmatters volubly enough. Besides, she made it easy. She was somarvellously natural, so free from a certain constraint which insome French circles is mistaken for good manners. She asked everydetail, and made particular inquiry as to who had seen the patient. 

"No one must be allowed to see him, " she said, in her decisive way. "He must be kept quite quiet. No one must approach this room, onlyyou and I, Monsieur le Cure. "

"Yes, mademoiselle, " he said slowly. "Yes. "

"You have been so good--you have done such wonders, that I rely uponyou to help me;" and a sudden, sharp look of anxiety swept acrossher face. "We shall be good friends--n'est ce pas?" she said, turning to look at him as he stood near the door. 

"It will be easy, I think, mademoiselle. "

Then he turned to Madame Senneville, who was carrying the baggageupstairs. 

"It is his sister, Madame Senneville, " he said. "She will, ofcourse, stay in the hotel. "

"Yes, and I have no room ready, " replied the huge woman, pessimistically. "One never knows what a summer storm may bring toone. "

"No, Mother Senneville, no; one never knows, " he said ratherabsently, and went out into the street. He was thinking of thestrange young person upstairs, who was unlike any woman he had metor imagined. Those in her station in life whom he had seen duringhis short thirty years were mostly dressed-up dolls, to whom onemade banal remarks without meaning. The rest were almost men, doingmen's work, leading a man's life. 

That same evening the injured man recovered consciousness, and itwas the cure who sent off the telegram to the doctor at Fecamp. Forthe wire had been repaired with the practical rapidity with whichthey manage such affairs in France. 

Through the slow recovery it was the cure who was ever at the beckand call of the two strangers, divining their desires, making quiteeasy a situation which otherwise might have been difficult enough. Not only the cure, but the whole village soon became quitereconciled to the hitherto unheard-of position assumed by this younggirl, without a guardian or a chaperon, who lived a frank, fearlesslife among them, making every day terrible assaults upon that codeof feminine behaviour which hedges Frenchwomen about like a wall. 

In the intimacy of the sick-room the little priest soon learnt totalk with the Englishwoman and her brother quite freely, as man toman, as he had talked to his bosom friend by selection at St. Omer. And there was in his heart that ever-abiding wonder that a woman maythus be a companion to a man, sharing his thoughts, nay, diviningthem before he had shaped them in his own mind. It was all verywonderful and new to this little priest, who had walked, as it were, on one side of the street of life since boyhood without a thought ofcrossing the road. 

When the three were together they were merry enough; indeed, theEnglishman's mistakes in French were sufficient to cause laughter inthemselves without that re-action which lightens the atmosphere of asick-room when the danger is past. But while he was talking to theMother Senneville downstairs, or waiting a summons to come up, thecure never heard laughter in the back bedroom. There seemed to besome shadow there which fled before his cheery smile when he wentupstairs. When he and the girl were together when she walked on thesea-wall with him for a breath of air, she was grave enough too, asif now that she knew him better she no longer considered itnecessary to assume a light-heartedness she did not feel. 

"Are you sure there is nothing I can do to make your life easierhere?" he asked suddenly one day. 

"Quite sure, " she answered without conviction. 

"Have you all that you want, mademoiselle?"

"Oh yes. "

But he felt that there was some anxiety weighing upon her. He wasalways at or near the Hotel de la Plage now, so that she could callhim from the window or the door. One day--a day of cloud anddrizzle, which are common enough at Yport in the early summer--hewent into the little front room, which the Mother Senneville fondlycalled her salon, to read the daily office from the cloth-bound bookhe ever carried in his pocket. He was engaged in this devout workwhen the Englishwoman came hastily into the room, closing the doorand standing with her back against it. 

"There is a gendarme in the street, " she said, in little more than awhisper, her eyes glittering. She was breathless. 

"What of it, mademoiselle? It is my old friend the Sergeant Grall. It is I who christen his children. "

"Why is he here?"

"It is his duty, mademoiselle. The village is peaceful enough nowthat the men are away at the fisheries. You have nothing to fear. "

She glanced round the room with a hunted look in her eyes. 

"Oh, " she said, "I cannot keep it up any longer. You must haveguessed--you who are so quick--that my brother is a great criminal. He has ruined thousands of people. He was escaping with the moneyhe had stolen when the steamer was wrecked. "

The cure did not say whether this news surprised him or not, butwalked to the window and looked thoughtfully out to sea. Thewindows were dull and spray-ridden. 

"Ah!" the girl cried, "you must not judge hastily. You cannot knowhis temptation. "

"I will not judge at all, mademoiselle. No man may judge ofanother's temptation. But--he can restore the money. "

"No. It was all lost in the steamer. "

She had approached the other window, and stood beside the littlepriest looking out over the grey sea. 

"It was surely my duty to come here and help him, whatever he haddone. "

"Assuredly, mademoiselle. "

"But he says you can give him up if you like. "

She glanced at him and caught her breath. The priest shook hishead. 

"Why not? Because you are too charitable?" she whispered; and againhe shook his head. "Then, why not?" she persisted with a strangepertinacity. 

"Because he is your brother, mademoiselle. "

And they stood for some moments looking out over the sea, throughthe rime-covered windows, in a breathless silence. The cure spokeat length. 

"You must get him removed to Havre, " he said, in his cheery way, "assoon as possible. There he can take a steamer to America. I willimpress upon the doctor the necessity of an early departure. "

It was not lately, but many years ago, that the Ocean Waif waswrecked in a summer storm. And any who penetrate to Yport to-daywill probably see in the sunlight on the sea-wall a cheery littlecure, who taps his snuff-box, while he exchanges jokes with theidlers there. Yport has slowly crept into the ken of the traveller, and every summer sees English tourists pass that way. They are notpopular with the rough natives, who, after all, are of the sameancestry as ourselves; but the little cure is quick and kind withinformation or assistance to all who seek it. When the Englishtongue is spoken he draws near and listens--snuff-box in hand; whenthe travellers speak in French his eyes travel out to sea with aqueer look, as if the accent aroused some memory. 

And in an obscure English watering-place there lives a queer littleold maid--churchy and prim--who does charitable work, gives heropinion very freely concerning the administration of mattersparochial, thinks the vicar very self-indulgent and idle--and in herown heart has the abiding conviction that there are none on earthlike the Roman clergy. 

"GOLOSSA-A-L"

"Golossa-a-l!" I heard him say. "Golossa-a-l, these Englishmen!Are they not everywhere?"

A moment later I was introduced to him, and he rose to shake hands--a tall, fair, good-natured German student. Heavy if you will--butclean withal, and of a cleanly mind. 

"Honour, " he muttered politely. "It is not often we have an Englishstudent at Gottingen--but perhaps we can teach you something--eh?"And he broke into a boyish laugh. "You will take beer?" he added, drawing forward an iron chair--for we were in the Brauerei Garden. 

"Thank you. "

"A doctor of medicine--the Herr Professor tells me, " he saidpleasantly. "Prosit, " he added, as he raised his great mug to hislips. 

"Prosit! Yes, a doctor of medicine--of the army. "

"Ah, of the army, that is good. I also I hope, some day! And youcome to pass our Gottingen examination. Yes, but it is hard--achGott!--devilish hard. "

There was a restrained shyness about the man which I liked. Shy menare so rare. And, although he could have cleared the BrauereiGarden in five minutes, there was no bluster about this TeutonicHercules. His loud, good-natured laugh was perhaps the moststriking characteristic of Carl von Mendebach. Next to that, hisreadiness to be surprised at everything or anything, and to class itat once as colossal. Hence the nickname by which he was knownamongst us. The term was applied to me a thousand times--figuratively. For I am a small man, as I have had reason to deploremore than once while carrying the wounded out of action. It takesso much longer if one is small. 

I cannot exactly say why Carl von Mendebach and I became closefriends; but I do not think that Lisa von Mendebach had anything todo with it. I was never in love with Lisa, although I admired herintensely, and I never see a blue-eyed, fair-haired girl to this daywithout thinking of Lischen. But I was not in love with her. I wasnever good-looking. I did not begin by expecting much from theother sex, and I have never been in love with anybody. I wonder ifLisa remembers me. 

The students were pleasant enough fellows. It must be recollectedthat I speak of a period dating back before the war of 1870--beforethere was a German Empire. I soon made a sort of place for myselfat the University, and I was tolerated good-naturedly. But Carl didmore than tolerate me. He gave me all the friendship of his simpleheart. Without being expansive--for he was a Hanoverian--he told meall about himself, his thoughts and his aims, an open-heartedambition and a very Germanic contentment with a world whichcontained beer and music. Then at last he told me all about hisfather, General von Mendebach, and Lisa. Finally be took me to hishouse one evening to supper. 

"Father, " he said in his loud, cheery way, "here is the Englishman--a good friend of mine--a great scholar--golossa-a-l. "

The General held out his hand and Lisa bowed, prettily formal, witha quaint, prim smile which I can see still. 

I went to the house often--as often, indeed, as I could. I met theVon Mendebachs at the usual haunts--the theatre, an occasionalconcert, the band on Sunday afternoon, and at the houses of some ofthe professors. It was Lisa who told me that another young Britonwas coming to live in Gottingen--not, however, as a student at theUniversity. He turned out to be a Scotsman--one Andrew Smallie, thedissolute offspring of a prim Edinburgh family. He had been shippedoff to Gottingen, in the hope that he might there drink himselfquietly to death. The Scotch do not keep their skeletons at home ina cupboard. They ship them abroad and give them facilities. 

Andrew Smallie soon heard that there was an English student inGottingen, and, before long, procured an introduction. I dislikedhim at once. I took good care not to introduce him to any friendsof mine. 

"Seem to lead a quiet life here, " he said to me one day when I hadexhausted all conversation and every effort to get him out of myrooms. 

"Very, " I replied. 

"Don't you know anybody? It's a deuced slow place. I don't know asoul to talk to except yourself. Can't take to these beer-drinking, sausage-eating Germans, you know. Met that friend of yours, Carlvon Mendebach, yesterday, but he didn't seem to see me. "

"Yes, " I answered. "It is possible he did not know you. You havenever been introduced. "

"No, " he answered dubiously. "Shouldn't think that would matter inan out-of-the-way place like this. "

"It may seem out of the way to you, " I said, without looking up frommy book. "But it does not do so to the people who live here. "

"D---d slow lot, I call them, " he muttered. He lighted a cigar andstood looking at me for some time and then he went away. 

It was about this time that Carl von Mendebach fought his firststudent duel, and he was kind enough to ask me to be his surgeon. It was, of course, no quarrel of his own, but a point of honourbetween two clubs; and Carl was selected to represent his "corps. "He was delighted, and the little slit in his cheek which resultedfrom the encounter gave him infinite satisfaction. I had beenelected to the "corps" too, and wore my cap and colours withconsiderable pride. But, being an Englishman, I was never asked tofight. I did not then, and I do not now, put forward any opinion onstudent duelling. My opinion would make no difference, and there ismuch to be said on both sides. 

It was a hard winter, and I know few colder places than Gottingen. An ice fete was organized by the University. I believe Carl and Iwere among the most energetic of the organizers. I wish I had neverhad anything to do with it. 

I remember to this day the pleasure of skating with Lisa's warmlygloved little hands in my own--her small furred form touching melightly each time we swung over to the left on the outside edge. Isaw Andrew Smallie once or twice. Once he winked at me, knowingly, as I passed him with Lisa--and I hated him for it. That man almostspoilt Gottingen for me. Britons are no friends of mine out oftheir own country. They never get over the fallacy that everywhereexcept London is an out-of-the-way place where nothing matters. 

As the evening wore on, some of the revellers became noisy in aharmless German way. They began to sing part songs with a skillwhich is not heard out of the Fatherland. Parties of young men andmaidens joined hands and swung round the lake in waltz time to thestrain of the regimental band. 

Lisa was tired, so she sought a seat with the General, leaving Carland me to practise complicated figures. They found a seat close tous--a seat somewhat removed from the lamps. In the dusk it wasdifficult to distinguish between the townspeople and the gentlefolk. 

We were absorbed in our attempts when I heard a voice I knew--andhated. 

"Here, you, little girl in the fur jacket--come and have a turn withme, " it was saying in loud, rasping, intoxicated tones. 

I turned sharply. Smallie was standing in front of Lisa with a leerin his eyes. She was looking up at him--puzzled, frightened--notunderstanding English. The General was obesely dumfounded. 

"Come along--my dear, " Andrew Smallie went on. He reached out hishand, and, grasping her wrist, tried to drag her towards him. 

Then I went for him. I am, as I have confessed, a small man. Butif a man on skates goes for another, he gathers a certain impetus. I gave it to him with my left, and Andrew Smallie slid along the iceafter he had fallen. 

The General hustled Lisa away, muttering oaths beneath his greatwhite moustache. 

When Andrew Smallie picked himself up, Carl von Mendebach wasstanding over him. 

"Tell him, " said Carl in German, "that that was my sister. "

I told Smallie. 

Then Carl von Mendebach slowly drew off his fur glove and boxedSmallie heavily on the ear so that he rolled over sideways. 

"Golossa-a-l, " muttered Von Mendebach, as we went away hurriedlytogether. 

The next morning Carl sent an English-speaking student with achallenge to Andrew Smallie. I wrote a note to my compatriot, telling him that although it was not our habit in England, he woulddo well to accept the challenge or to leave Gottingen at once. Carlstood over me while I wrote the letter. 

"Tell him, " he said, "where he can procure fencing lessons. "

I gave Smallie the name of the best fencing-master in Gottingen. Then we called for beer and awaited the return of our messenger. The student came back looking grave and pale. 

"He accepts, " he said. "But--"

"Well!" we both exclaimed. 

"He names pistols. "

"What?" I cried. Carl laughed suddenly. We had never thought ofsuch a thing. Duelling with pistols is forbidden. It is neverdreamt of among German students. 

"Ah--all right!" said Carl. "If he wishes it. "

I at once wrote a note to Smallie, telling him that the thing wasimpossible. My messenger was sent back without an answer. I wrote, offering to fight Carl myself with the usual light sword or thesabre, in his name and for him. To this I received no answer. Iwent round to his rooms and was refused admittance. 

The next morning at five--before it was light--Carl and I startedoff on foot for a little forest down by the river. At six o'clockAndrew Smallie arrived. He was accompanied by an Einjahriger--aGerman who had lived in England before he came home to serve hisyear in the army. 

We did not know much about it. Carl laughed as I put him inposition. The fresh pink of his cheek--like the complexion of ahealthy girl--never faded for a moment. 

"When I've done with him, " cried Smallie, "I'll fight you. "

We placed our men. The German soldier gave the word. Carl vonMendebach went down heavily. 

He was still smiling--with a strange surprise on his simple face. 

"Little man, " he said, "he has hit me. "

He lay quite still while I quickly loosened his coat. Then suddenlyhis breath caught. 

"Golossa-a-l!" he muttered. His eyes glazed. He was dead. 

I looked up and saw Smallie walking quickly away alone. TheEinjahriger was kneeling beside me. 

I have never seen or heard of Andrew Smallie since. I am a grey-haired man now. I have had work to do in every war of my day. Ihave been wounded--I walk very lame. But I still hope to see AndrewSmallie--perhaps in a country where I can hold him to his threat; ifit is only for the remembrance of five minutes that I had with Lisawhen I went back to Gottingen that cold winter morning. 

THE MULE

 "Si je vis, c'est bien; si je meurs, c'est bien. "

"Ai-i-ieah, " the people cried, as Juan Quereno passed--the cry ofthe muleteers, in fact. And this was considered an excellent joke. It had been a joke in the country-side for nearly twenty years; oneof perhaps half a dozen, for the uneducated mind is slow tocomprehend, and slower to forget. Some one had nicknamed JuanQuereno the "Mule" when he was at school, and Spain, like Italy andparts of Provence, is a country where men have two names--thebaptismal, and the so-called. Indeed, the custom is so universal, that official records must needs take cognizance of it, and graveGovernment papers are made out in the name of so-and-so, "named themonkey. "

There were, after all, worse by-names in the village than the Mule, which is, as many know, a willing enough beast if taken the rightway. If taken in the wrong--well, one must not take him in thewrong way, and there is an end of it! A mule will suddenly stopbecause, it would appear, he has something on his mind and desiresto think it out then and there. And the man who raises a stick is, of course, a fool. Any one knows that. There is nothing for it butto stand and watch his ears, which are a little set back, and cry, "Ai-i-ieah, " patiently and respectfully, until the spirit moves himto go on. And then the mule will move on, slowly at first, withoutenthusiasm, a quality which, by the way, is, of all the animals, only to be found in the horse and the dog. 

The quick-witted who had dealings with Quereno knew, therefore, byhis name what manner of man this was, and dealt with himaccordingly. Juan Quereno was himself a muleteer, and in even sucha humble capacity as scrambling behind a beast of burden over arocky range of mountains and through a stream or two, a man may makefor himself a small reputation in his small world. Juan Querenowas, namely, a Government muleteer, and carried the mails overnineteen chaotic miles of rock and river. When the mails weredelayed owing, it was officially announced, to heavy snow or rain inthe mountains, the delay never occurred on Quereno's etapa. 

For nine years, winter and summer, storm and shine, he got his mailsthrough, backwards and forwards, sleeping one night at San Celoni, the next at Puente de Rey. Such was Juan Quereno, "a stupid enoughfellow, " the democratic schoolmaster of San Celoni said, with ashrug of his shoulders and a wave of the cigarette which he alwayscarried half-smoked and unlighted in his fingers. 

The schoolmaster was, nevertheless, pleasant enough when the Mule, clean-shaven and shy, with a shrinking look in his steady, blackeyes, asked one evening if he could speak to him alone. 

"But yes--amigo!" he replied; "but yes. " And he drew aside on thebench that stands at the schoolhouse door. "Sit down. "

The Mule sat down, leant heavily against the wall, and thrust outfirst one heavy foot and then the other. Then he sat forward withhis elbows on his knees, and looked at his dusty boots. His facewas tanned a deep brown--a stolid face--not indicative of muchintelligence perhaps, not spiritual, but not bad on the other hand, which is something in a world that abounds in bad faces. He glancedsideways at the schoolmaster, and moistened his lips with histongue, openly, after the manner of the people. 

"It is about Caterina, eh?" inquired the elder man. 

"Yes, " replied the Mule, with a sort of gasp. If the Mule had everbeen afraid in his life, it was at that moment--afraid, if youplease, of a little democrat of a schoolmaster no bigger than thefirst-class boys, blinking through a pair of magnifying spectacleswhich must have made the world look very large, if one could judgefrom the effect that they had upon his eyes. 

The schoolmaster looked up towards the mountains, to the goatspoised there upon the broken ground, seeking a scanty herbage in thecrannies. 

"How many beasts is it that you have--four or five?" he inquiredkindly enough, after a moment, and the Mule drew a deep breath. 

"Five, " he replied; and added, after a minute's deep and honestthought, "and good ones, except Cristofero Colon, the big one. Heeats much, and yet, when the moment comes"--he paused and lookedtowards the mountains, which rose like a wall to the south, a wallthat the Mule must daily climb--"when the moment comes he willsometimes refuse--especially in an east wind. "

The schoolmaster smiled, thinking perhaps of that other CristoferoColon and the east wind that blew him to immortal fame. 

"And Caterina, " he asked. "What does she think of it?"

"I don't know. "

The schoolmaster looked at his companion with an upward jerk of thehead. It was evident that he thought him a dull fellow. But thatassuredly was Caterina's affair. It was, on the other hand, distinctly the affair of Caterina's father to remember those fivebeasts of the Mule's, than which there were none better in thecountry-side--to recollect that the Mule himself had a good name athis trade, and was trusted by the authorities. There was no matchso good in all the valley, and certainly none to compare with thisdull swain in the accursed village of San Celoni. The schoolmasternever spoke of the village without a malediction. He had beenplanted there in his youth with a promise of promotion, andpromotion had never come. For a man of education it was exile--nonewspapers, no passing travellers at the Cafe. The nearest town wastwenty miles away over the Sierra Nevada, and Malaga--the pavedParadise of his rural dreams--forty rugged miles to the south. Nowonder he was a democrat, this disappointed man. In a Republic, now, such as his father had schemed for in the forties, he wouldhave succeeded. A Republic, it must be remembered, being acommunity in which every man is not only equal, but superior to hisneighbour. 

"You don't know?"

"No, " answered the Mule, with a dull look of shame at his own faint-heartedness. Moreover, he was assuredly speaking an untruth. Theman who fears to inquire--knows. 

As a matter of fact, he had hardly spoken to Caterina. Conversationwas not the Mule's strong point. He had exchanged the usualgreetings with her at the fountain on a fiesta day. He had nodded agood morning to her, gruff and curt (for the Mule had no manners), more times than he could count. And Caterina had met his slowglance with those solemn eyes of hers, and that, so to speak, hadsettled the Mule's business. Just as it would have settled thebusiness of five out of six men. For Caterina had Moorish eyes--dark and solemn and sad, which said a hundred things that Caterinahad never thought of--which seemed to have some history in them thatcould hardly have been Caterina's history, for she was onlyseventeen. Though, as to this, one cannot always be sure. Perhapsthe history was all to come. Of course, the Mule knew none of thesethings. He was a hard-working, open-air Andalusian, and only knewthat he wanted Caterina, and, as the saying is, could not livewithout her. Meantime he lived on from day to day without thatwhich he wanted, and worked--just as the reader may be doing. That, in fact, is life--to live on without something or other, and work. Than which there is one thing worse, namely, to live on and be idle. 

"But--" said the schoolmaster, slowly, for Andalusian tongues areslow, if the knives are quick--"but one may suppose that you wouldmake her a good husband. "

And a sudden gruff laugh was the answer. A woman would haveunderstood it; but Caterina had no mother. And the schoolmaster wasthinking of the five beasts and the postal appointment. Themuleteer's face slowly sank back into stolidity again. The lightthat had flashed across it had elevated that dull physiognomy for amoment only. 

"Yes, " said the Mule slowly, at length. 

"You can read and write?" inquired the man of education. 

"Yes, but not quickly!"

"That, " said the schoolmaster, "is a matter of practice. You shouldread the newspapers. "

Which was bad advice, for the Mule was simple and might havebelieved what he read. 

The conversation was a long one; that is to say, it lasted a longtime; until, indeed, the sun had set and the mountains had fadedfrom blue to grey, while the far-off snow peaks reared their shadowyheads into the very stars. The schoolmaster had a few morequestions to ask, and the Mule answered them in monosyllables. Hewas tired, perhaps, after his day's journey; for he had come thenorthward trip, which was always the hardest, entailing as it did arocky climb on the sunny side of the mountains. He had nothing tosay in his own favour, which is not such a serious matter as somemight suspect. The world does not always take us at our ownvaluation, which is just as well--for the world. 

Indeed, the schoolmaster only succeeded in confirming his ownsuspicion that this was nothing but a dull fellow, and he finallyhad to dismiss the Mule, who had not even the savoir faire toperceive when conversation was ended. 

"Vederemos, " he said, judicially, "we shall see. "

And the Mule went away with that heaviness of heart which mustsurely follow a mean action. For he knew that in applying toCaterina's father he had placed Caterina at a disadvantage. Theschoolmaster, be it remembered, was a democrat, and such are usuallyautocrats in their own house. He was, moreover, a selfish man, andhad long cherished the conviction that he was destined to be great. He thought that he was an orator, and that gift, which is called bythose who do not possess it the gift of the gab, is the mostdangerous that a man can have. There was no one in San Celoni tolisten to him. And if Caterina were married and he were a free man, he could give up the school and go to Malaga, where assuredly hecould make a name. 

So the schoolmaster told Caterina the next morning that she was tomarry the Mule--that the matter was settled. The dusky roses fadedfrom Caterina's cheek for a moment, and her great dark eyes had ahunted look. That look had often come there of late. The priesthad noticed it, and one or two old women. 

"Almost as if she were in the mountains, " they said, which is alocal polite way of referring to those unfortunate gentlemen who, for some reason or another, do not desire to meet the Guardia Civil, and haunt the upper slopes of the Sierra Nevada, where they live, aslive the beasts of the forest, seeking their meat from God, whilethe charitable, and, it is even whispered, the priest or the Alcaldehimself, will at times lay an old coat or a loaf of bread at theroadside above the village, and never inquire who comes to take it. 

The Mule himself, it is known, buys more matches than he can everburn, so much as six boxes at a time, of those cheap sulphurouswooden matches that are made at Barcelona, and the next day will buymore. The Mule, however, is such a silent man that those who are"in the mountains" make no concealment with him, but meet him (wild, unkempt figures that appear quietly from behind a great rock) as hepasses on his journeys, and ask him if he has a match upon him. They sometimes look at the mail-bags slung across the stubborn backof Cristofero Colon with eyes that have the hunted, hungry lookwhich Caterina has. 

"There is, perhaps, money in there, " they say. 

"Perhaps, " answers the Mule, without afterthought. 

"It may be a thousand pesetas. "

"Perhaps. "

And the Mule, who is brave enough where Caterina is not concerned, quietly turns his back upon a man who carries a gun, and followsCristofero Colon. It sometimes happens that he trudges his nineteenmiles without meeting any one, with no companion but his mules andhis dog. This last-named animal is such as may be met in Spain oreven in France at any street corner--not a retriever, nor afoxhound, nor anything at all but a dog as distinguished from a cator a goat, living a troubled and uncertain life in a world that willalways cringe to a pedigree, but has no respect for nondescripts. It was on these journeys that the Mule had so much leisure forthought. For even he could think, according to his dim lights. Hewas only conscious, however, of an ever-increasing feeling of asickness--a physical nausea (for he was, of course, a mere earthy-creature)--at the thought of a possible life without Caterina. Andit was at the end of a grilling day that the schoolmaster beckonedto him as he passed the school-house, and told him that it wassettled--that Caterina would marry him. 

"Would you like to see her? She is indoors, " inquired the bearer ofthe tidings. 

"No, " answered the Mule, after a dull pause. "Not to-night. I havemy mail-bags, as you see. "

And he clattered on down the narrow street with a dazed look, as ifthe brightness of Paradise had flashed across his vision. 

So it was settled. Caterina and the Mule were to be married, andthere had been no love-making, the old women said. "And what, " theyasked, "is youth for, if there is to be no love-making?" "And Godknows they were right, " said the priest who heard the remark, andwho was a very old man himself. 

Two days after that, the Mule met Caterina as she was going to thefountain. He said "Good morning. " They both stopped, and the Mulelooked into Caterina's eyes and had nothing to say. For he sawsomething there which he did not understand, and which made him feelthat he was no better than Cristofero Colon, scraping and stumblingup the narrow street with the mail-bags, in such a vile temper, bythe way, that the Mule had to hurry after him. 

"It is a slow business, " said the schoolmaster to Sergeant Nolveda, of the Guardia Civil, who lived in San Celoni and trained one youngrecruit after another according to the regulations of this admirablecorps. For one never meets a Guardia Civil alone, but always incompany--an old head and a pair of young legs. "A slow business. He is not a lover such as I should choose were I a pretty girl likeCaterina; but one can never tell with women--eh?"

Indeed, matters did not progress very quickly. The Mule appeared totake so much for granted--to take as said so much that had not beensaid. Even the love-making seemed to him to have been understood, and he appeared to be quite content to go his daily journeys withthe knowledge that Caterina was to be his wife. There were, ofcourse, others in the valley who would have been glad enough tomarry Caterina, but she had shown no preference for any of theseswains, who knew themselves inferior, in a worldly sense, to theMule. So the whole country-side gradually accustomed itself also tothe fact that Caterina was to marry Quereno. The news even spreadto the mountains. The Mule heard of it there one day when he hadaccomplished fourteen daily journeys to the accompaniment of thisnew happiness. 

As he was nearing the summit of the pass he saw Pedro Casavel, whohad been "in the mountains" three years, seated on a stone awaitinghim. Pedro Casavel was a superior man, who had injured another in adispute originating in politics. His adversary was an old man, nowstricken with a mortal disease. And it was said that Pedro Casavelcould safely return to the village, where his father owned a goodhouse and some land. His enemy had forgiven him, and would notprosecute. But Casavel lingered in the mountains, distrusting soChristian a spirit. 

He rose as the Mule slowly approached. He carried a gun always, andwas more daring than his companions in retreat. The Mulemechanically sought in his jacket pocket for a box of matches, whichhe knew would be a welcome gift, and held them out silently as heneared Casavel. But Casavel did not take them. 

"I hear that you are to marry Caterina, " he said, with a halfdisdainful laugh. "Is it true?"

"It is true, " answered the Mule. 

"If you do, " cried the other, passionately, with a bang on the stockof his gun that startled Cristofero Colon--"if you do, I will shootyou. "

The Mule smiled slowly, just as he smiled when the people cried "Ai-i-ieah" as he passed them. 

"I am going to marry her, " he said, with a shake of the head. Andmechanically he handed the other the box of matches, which Casaveltook, though his eyes still flashed with anger and that terriblejealousy which flows in Southern blood. Then the Mule walked slowlyon, while his dog shambled after him, turning back once or twice toglance apprehensively at the man left standing in the middle of therocky path. Dogs, it is known, have a keener scent than humanbeings--perhaps, also, they have a keener vision, and see morewritten on the face of man than we can perceive. 

The Mule turned at the summit of the pass, and looked down, as healways did, at the village where Caterina lived, before turning hisface to the sunnier southern slope. He saw Casavel standing wherehe had left him, holding up the gun with a threatening gesture. TheMule had no eye for effect. He did not even shrug his shoulders. 

It was finally the schoolmaster who hurried matters to their naturalconclusion. By his advice, the Mule, who had hitherto lodged in thehouse of the postmaster, rented a cottage of his own and bought somesimple furniture. He consulted Caterina on several points, and shewas momentarily aroused from a sort of apathy which had come overher of late, by a very feminine interest in the kitchen fittings. The best that could be said for Caterina was that she was resigned. As for the Mule, like the animal from which he had acquired hishabits of thought as well as his name, he seemed to expect butlittle from life. So, one morning before departing on his dailyjourney, the Mule was unobtrusively married to Caterina in thelittle pink stucco chapel that broods over the village of San Celonilike a hen over her chickens. And Cristofero Colon and the dogwaited outside. 

It was a commonplace ceremony, and at its conclusion the bridegroomtrudged off up the village street behind his mail-bags. The Mule, it must be admitted, was a deadly dull person--y nada mas--andnothing more, as his fond father-in-law observed at the cafe thatsame morning. 

But when he returned on the second evening, he made it evident thathe had been thinking of Caterina in his absence, for he gave her, half shyly and very awkwardly, some presents that he had broughtfrom a larger village than San Celoni, which he had passed on hisway. There were shops in the village, and it was held in thedistrict that articles bought there were of superior quality to suchas came even from Granada or Malaga. The Mule had expended nearly apeseta on a coloured kerchief such as women wear on their heads, anda brooch of blue glass. 

"Thank you, " said Caterina, taking the presents and examining themwith bright eyes. She stood before him in a girlish attitude, folding the kerchief across her hand, and holding it so that thelight of their new lamp fell upon it. "It is very pretty. "

The Mule had washed his face and hands at the fountain, as he cameinto San Celoni, remembering that he was a bridegroom. He stood, sleek and sunburnt, looking down at her, and, if he had only had thewords, the love-making might have commenced then and there, at apoint where the world says it usually ends. 

"There was nothing, " he said slowly at length, "in the shops thatseemed to me pretty at all--" He paused, and turned away to lay hisberet aside, then, with his back towards her, he finished thesentence. "Not pretty enough for you. "

Caterina winced, as if he had hurt instead of pleased her. Shebusied herself with the preparations for their simple supper, andthe Mule sat silently watching her--as happy, perhaps, in his dullway, as any king has ever been. Then suddenly Caterina's fingersbegan to falter, and she placed the plates on the table with aclatter, as if her eyes were blinded. She hesitated, and with asort of wail of despair, sat down and hid her face in her apron. And the Mule's happiness was only human after all, for it wastransformed in the twinkling of an eye into abject misery. 

He sat biting his lip, and looking at her as she sobbed. Then atlength he rose slowly, and, going to her, laid his great, solid, heavy hand upon her shoulder. But he could not think of anything tosay. He could only meet this as he had met other emergencies, withthat silence which he had acquired from the dumb beasts amid themountains. 

At length, after a long pause, he spoke. He had detected amovement, made by Caterina and instantly restrained, to withdrawfrom the touch of his hand, and this had set his slow brainthinking. He had dealt with animals more than with men, and wasless slow to read a movement than to understand a word. 

"What is it?" he asked. "Is it that you are sorry you married me?"

And Caterina, who belonged to a people saying yea, yea, and nay, nay, nodded her head. 

"Why?" asked the Mule, with a deadly economy of words. And she didnot answer him. "Is it because--there is another man?"

It was known in the valley that the Mule had never used his knife, not even in self-defence. Caterina did not dare, however, to answerhim. She only whispered a prayer to the Virgin. 

"Is it Pedro Casavel?" asked the Mule; and the question brought herto her feet, facing him with white cheeks. 

"No--no--no!" she cried. "What made you think that? Oh--no!"

Woman-like, she thought she could fool him. The Mule turned awayfrom her and sat down again. Woman-like, she had forgotten her owndanger at the mere thought that Casavel might suffer. 

"And he--in the mountains, " said the Mule, thinking aloud. He wasbeginning to see now, at last, when it was too late, as better menthan he have done before, and will continue to do hereafter. Caterina could not have held out as an objection to her marriage thefact that she loved a man who was in the mountains. Theschoolmaster was not one to listen to such an argument as that, especially from a girl who could not know her own mind. For theschoolmaster was, despite his radical tendencies, bigoted in hisadherence to the old mistakes. 

Caterina might have told the Mule, perhaps, if he had asked her; forshe knew that he was gentle even with the stubborn Cristofero Colon. But he had not asked her, failing the necessary courage to face thetruth. 

It was, of course, the woman who spoke first, in a quiet voice, withthat philosophy of life which is better understood by women than bymen. 

"You must, at all events, eat, " she said, "after your journey. Itis a cocida that I have made. "

She busied herself among the new kitchen utensils with movementshardly yet as certain as the movements of a woman, but rather thoseof a child, hasty and yet deft enough. The Mule watched her, seatedclumsily, with round shoulders, in the attitude of a field labourerindoors. When the steaming dish, which smelt of onions, was setupon the table, he rose and dragged his chair forward. He did notthink of setting a chair in place for Caterina, who brought one forherself, and they sat down--to their wedding feast. 

They appeared to accept the situation, as the poor and the hard-worked have to accept the many drawbacks to their lot, withoutfurther comment. The Mule cultivated a more complete silence thanhitherto; but he was always kind to Caterina, treating her as hewould one of his beasts which had been injured, with a mutual silentacceptance of the fact that she had a sorrow, a weak spot as itwere, which must not be touched. With a stolid tact he nevermentioned the mountains, or those unfortunate men who dwelt therein. If he met Pedro Casavel he did not mention the encounter toCaterina. Neither did he make any reference to Caterina when hegave Pedro a box of matches. Indeed, he rarely spoke to Casavel atall, but nodded and passed on his way. If Casavel approached frombehind he stopped without looking round, and waited for him just ashis mules stopped, and as mules always do when they hear any oneapproaching from behind. 

So time went on, and the schoolmaster, resigning his situation, departed to Malaga, where, by the way, he came to no good; for oftalking there is too much in this world, and a wise man would notsay thank you for the gift of the gab. The man whom Pedro Casavelhad injured died quietly in his bed. Caterina went about her dailywork with her unspoken history in her eyes, while Pedro himself nodoubt ate his heart out in the mountains. That he ate it out insilence could scarcely be, for the tale got about the valley somehowthat he and Caterina had been lovers before his misfortune. 

And as for the Mule, he trudged his daily score of miles, and saidnothing to any man. It would be hard to say whether he noticed thatPedro Casavel, when he showed himself now in the mountains, appearedrather ostentatiously without his gun--harder still to guess whetherthe Mule knew that as he passed across the summit Casavel wouldsometimes lie amid the rocks, and cover him with that same gun for ahundred yards or so, slowly following his movements with the steadybarrel so that the mail-carrier's life hung, as it were, on thetouch of a trigger for minutes together. Pedro Casavel seemed toshift his hiding place, as if he were seeking to perfect certaindetails of light and range and elevation. Perhaps it was only agrim enjoyment which he gathered from thus holding the Mule's lifein his hand for five or six minutes two or three times a week;perhaps, after all, he was that base thing, a coward, and lacked thenerve to pull a trigger--to throw a bold stake upon life's table andstand by the result. Each day he crept a little nearer, grew moredaring; until he noticed a movement made by the lank, ill-fed dog, that seemed to indicate that the beast, at all events, knew of hispresence in the rocks above the footpath. 

Then one day, when there was no wind, and the light was good and therange had been ascertained, Pedro Casavel pulled the trigger. Thereport and a puff of bluish smoke floated up to heaven, where theywere doubtless taken note of, and the Mule fell forward on his face. 

"I have it, " he muttered, in the curt, Andalusian dialect. And thenand there the Mule died. 

It happened to be Cristofero Colon's day to do the southwardjourney, and despite the lank dog's most strenuous efforts, hecontinued his way, gravely carrying the dusty mail-bags to theirdestination. The dog remained behind with the Mule, pessimisticallysniffing at his clothing, recognizing, no doubt, that which, next toan earthquake, is the easiest thing to recognize in nature. Then atlength he turned homewards, towards San Celoni, with hanging earsand a loose tail. He probably suspected that the Mule had longstood between him and starvation--that none other would take hisplace or remember to feed a dog of so unattractive an appearance andno pedigree whatever. 

Caterina did not expect the Mule to return that evening, which washis night away from home at Puente de Rey. She hurried to the door, therefore, when she heard, after nightfall, the clatter of hoofs inthe narrow street, and the shuffling of iron heels at her very step. She opened the door, and in the bright moonlight saw the cocked-hatsand long cloaks of the Guardia Civil. There were other men behindthem, and a beast shuffled his feet as he was bidden to stand still. 

"What is it?" she asked. "An accident to the Mule?"

"Not exactly that, " replied the Sergeant, grimly, as he made way fortwo men who approached carefully, carrying a heavy weight. It wasthe Mule whom they brought in and laid on the table. 

"Shot, " said the Sergeant, curtly. He had heard the gossip of thevalley, and doubted whether Caterina would need much pity orconsideration. His companion-in-arms now appeared, leading by thesleeve one who was evidently his captive. Caterina looked up andmet his eyes. It was Pedro Casavel, sullen, ill-clad, half abarbarian, with the seal of the mountains upon him. "The mail-bagsare missing, " pursued the Sergeant, who in a way was the law-giverof the valley. "Robbery was doubtless the object. We shall findthe mail-bags among the rocks. The Mule must have shown fight; forhis pistol was in his pocket with one barrel discharged. "

As he spoke he laid his hand upon the Mule's broad chest withoutheeding the stained shirt. That stain was no new sight to an oldsoldier. 

"Robbery, " he repeated, with a glance at Casavel and Caterina, whostood one on each side of the table that bore such a grim burden, and looked at each other. "Robbery and murder. So we brought PedroCasavel, whose hiding-place we have known these last two years, withus--on the chance, eh?--on the chance. It was the dog that came andtold us. Whoever shot the man should have shot the dog too--forsafety's sake. "

As the Sergeant spoke, he mechanically made sure that the Mule'spockets were empty. Suddenly he stopped, and withdrew a foldedpaper from the inside pocket of the jacket. He turned towards thelamp to read the writing on it. It was the Mule's writing. TheSergeant turned, after a moment's thought, and faced Casavel again. 

"You are free to go, Pedro, " he said. "I have made a mistake, and Iask your pardon. "

He held out the paper, which, however, Casavel did not take, butstood stupidly staring, as if he did not understand. 

Then the Sergeant turned to the lamp again. He unfolded the paper, which was crumpled as if with long friction in the pocket, and readaloud -

"Let no one be accused of my death. It is I, who, owing to privatetrouble, shall shoot myself. Juan Quereno, so-called the 'Mule. '"

IN LOVE AND WAR

 "Secret de deux, secret de Dieu. "

"Guess anybody could be a soldier and swing a sword, while it takesbrains to make a doctor. "

Now I was a doctor, and a very young one in those days, new to theregiment and conscious of my inferiority to its merest subaltern. The young person who made the above observation was, moreover, pretty, with dark eyes and the most bewitching lips that ever gavevoice to an American accent. My heart was young, and thereforeeasily stirred by such vanities--nothing stirs it now but the cry ofthe bugle and the sullen roar that rises from the ranks when, atlast, T. Atkins is allowed to get to the bayonet. 

We were sitting in the verandah of the Residency in the capital of anorthern tributary state which need not be further specified here. The Rajah was in difficulties and unable, without our aid, todispose of a claimant to his throne, whose hereditary rightoriginated somewhere in the lifetime of St. Paul. General Elias J. Watson, of Boston, U. S. A. , was travelling for the enlargement of hisown and his daughter's mind. 

"Pa is just going to write a book about things in general, "explained Miss Bertha Watson, with a wise little smile, when herfather's thirst for information became irksome. 

Hearing in Simla that an expeditionary force was about to bedespatched to the assistance of the Rajah of Oadpur, General Watsonhastened thither. He had letters of introduction from sundrypersons who wished to get rid of him to sundry others who had nodesire to assist in any way. But the old man's naivete andcharacteristically simple interest in details soon made their way, while Bertha's wise little smile carried all before it. It somehowconveyed the impression that she knew a thing or two of which wewere ignorant, and like one man we fell to desiring knowledge ofthose things. I was nowhere. Doctors never are anywhere inregimental competitions, for they are usually, like myself, deadlypoor. Sometimes Bertha danced with me, as on this occasion, at theimpromptu entertainments given by the Resident. 

"Say, shall we have another?" she observed before my heart hadrecovered from the effect of the last remark. And she handed me thestationery department envelope which served as a programme on theseoccasions. 

I fumbled for my pencil in a seventh heaven of joy. I had readsomewhere that women sometimes give their hearts to small andinsignificant men. But it seemed unlikely that this referred tosuch women as Bertha Watson. I had never dreamt of cutting out theother men: Major Le Mesurier-Groselin, who had money, for instance, or Austin Graham--especially Austin Graham. There had been a rumourin the air--planted there, no doubt, by some of the women who have amarvellous scent for a light trail--that there was an understandingbetween Graham and Bertha. I noticed that she never looked at himwith her bewitching little smile as she did at the rest of us. Butthat was all I could detect. Perhaps she thought that he was wiserthan herself. Perhaps, moreover, she was right; for Graham was thewisest man up there, and I think the bravest. He meant business, hetold me, and had come to make his name in this little war. 

He was a quiet-going, fair man, with that inestimable advantage oflooking at all times exactly what he was, namely, a gentleman bylong descent. He was a great friend of mine, and we shared quartersin a sort of gatehouse to the Rajah's palace, where I knew that heworked night and day, for he was chief of the staff, and had a greatscheme of crushing the insurrection, at one blow, by a surpriseassault of the fortified town twenty miles away, where the claimantlay with his forces. 

"Seems to me, " said Bertha, when I had duly inscribed my name on theGovernment envelope, "that this is what you call a demonstration inforce. This is not serious war. You are not going to fight at all. Things are much too quiet and orderly--with church parade, andsoirees-dansantes, and visiting cards. "

She looked at me, and if I had had any secrets I should have toldthem to her then and there. 

"Then you think there'll be fighting, " she added, with a calmness ofdemeanour which was in itself unusual and fascinating enough. 

She had no reason to arrive at such a conclusion, for I had notuttered a sound. I probably did not know, however, in those daysthat the lies requiring the minutest care are the unspoken ones. 

"You see, I'm only a doctor, " I answered, "and, strange to say, theBrigadier has not as yet taken me into his confidence. "

"I know a lot about war, " she went on after a momentary pause. Sheappeared to have some misgiving about one of the buttons on her longglove which she had undone and was tentatively tugging at thethread. 

"May I button that?" I said hurriedly in my extreme youth, and witha palpitating courage. 

"Why, yes--if you have any ambition that way. " And she extended herarm towards me. "Now, " she said, with a grave air of confidencewhich I now distrust whenever it is tried upon me, "if I was the manin charge of this show, I would just go on like this, giving ballsand private theatricals and exchanging visiting cards. This placeis full of spies, of course. The very servants who wait on theGeneral probably read all his letters and send copies of them to theenemy. The plan of campaign is probably as well known to What-'em-you-call-it Khan as it is to the Brigadier. "

"No, I am sure it isn't, " I interrupted; "because Graham keeps itlocked up in a medical-comfort chest with his dressing-case locked, which we screwed on ourselves. "

"Ah, is that so, doctor? Well, you can't be too careful, can you?As I was saying, I should convey to the spies the impression that itwas only a demonstration in force. Then one night I should startoff quietly, march twenty miles, and give What-'em-you-call-it KhanHail Columbia before sunrise. "

She looked at me, gave a knowing little nod of the head, and beganfanning herself. 

"That is my plan of campaign, " she said. "You know Pa is here onpurpose to see the British soldier fight. We have been waiting herea month now, and I hope you are going to ring up the curtain soon. Pa has theories about the British soldier, and although he is aGeneral, you know he has never seen a fight. I tell him if I was aGeneral who hadn't seen a fight, I'd just go out and sell myselfcheap! What?"

"Nothing. "

"I guess you spoke. "

"I said you'd probably do that at any rate. "

"Not cheap, " she answered gravely, and then we changed the subject. So far as I recollect, we returned to the discussion of doctors andtheir trade, and before long I had the opportunity of airing myspecial hobby at that time--the study of native drugs. Miss Watsonwas deeply interested--at least, she made me think so, and before weparted I had promised to send round to her "diggings, " as she calledthem, a bottle of a perfectly harmless narcotic which I had made upfor the use of persons suffering from sea-sickness or toothache. Iuse it still, and have some always by me on service in a bottlelabelled "Bertha, " for there is, after all, something in a name. 

I went home to my quarters rather thoughtful that night; for BerthaWatson's plan of campaign was Austin Graham's plan of campaign, andI knew that Graham was not the man to divulge so much as a hint ofthis secret. I know now that if a woman loves a man she knows muchthat he never tells her, but I was ignorant of this and many othermatters at the time when I made Bertha's acquaintance. 

The days dragged on and we seemed to be no nearer solving theRajah's difficulties. There were at that time no native newspapers, and bazaar gossip, which is, by the way, surer and speedier than themost enlightened press, made up for the want. Bazaar gossip heldmuch the same opinion as Bertha Watson--namely, that we were only ademonstration in force. This opinion gained ground daily, and beganlike a hardy weed to throw out tendrils in the shape of details. Wewere afraid of the claimant to the throne, it seemed. We hadquarrelled with the Rajah, and would not risk a defeat on hisaccount. 

Austin Graham came and went. I sometimes found mysterious nativeswaiting for him in our quarters. One of these natives spokeHindustanee with a faint Scotch accent, and laughed when I told himso. 

"I'm all right in the dialects though, " he said, in Glasgow English, and asked for a cigarette. We sat and talked for half an hourawaiting Graham's arrival, but he never told me who he was. 

One night, about midnight, I was aroused by Le Mesurier-Groselin, who was in full fighting kit and had a queer light in his eyes whichwas new to me, though heaven and the Horse Guards know that I haveseen it often enough since. 

"Get up--Sawbones!" said Le Mesurier-Groselin. "You'll be wanted atany rate, but now I want you badly. We're just off to smoke the oldKhan out, and something has gone wrong with Graham. For God's sake, man, hurry up! It will be a pretty fight, and I would not miss itfor worlds. "

I looked at Le Mesurier-Groselin as I hauled on my clothes. He hadeight thousand a year, an Elizabethan manor in England, and thecertainty of a baronetcy; but the thought of these things neverbrought to his eyes the light that was there now. 

"What is wrong with Graham?"

"I don't know--wish I did. Can't move him. Seems quite stupid ordead drunk, " answered Le Mesurier-Groselin, handing me my belt. 

We hurried upstairs to the room occupied by Austin Graham, and therefound him lying on the bed with his eyes almost, but not quite, shut. 

"Where was he to-night--dining with you at mess?" I asked, raisingone heavy lid with my finger. 

"No, he dined with the Watsons. "

"When did you last see him?"

"About ten o'clock at my quarters. He was coming here to change intime for the assembly at eleven forty-five--the column is justmarching. I came here to hurry him up and found him like this. Thewhole attack is his planning. It would have been the making of him. He was to have led the ladders. Gad! what a chance the man had--andlook at the poor devil now!"

I was examining Austin Graham with a thumping heart, for a queersuspicion was in my mind. Presently I ran downstairs and uncorkedthe bottle which I now label "Bertha. " The smell was identical, andI went upstairs again. 

"Help me to get him into his boots and tunic, " I said. 

And Le Mesurier-Groselin and I huddled the man's fighting clothes onto him by the light of a flickering candle. Le Mesurier-Groselinwas a big man, and my trade had taught me a certain skill in thehandling of the dead. We soon had Austin Graham in full uniformsitting up in my arms, with the helmet crammed on his head at anunseemly angle. He was perfectly insensible, but his heart wentwell. 

"Now help me to get him on to his horse, " I said. 

Le Mesurier-Groselin dropped his eye-glass for the first and lasttime on record, and looked at me with a surprised eye and a solemnone. 

"I'll obey orders, " he said. "But I take it that you are very drunkor else mad. "

We carried him downstairs and I climbed into Graham's saddle. LeMesurier-Groselin lifted Graham, who must have weighed fourteenstone, into the saddle in front of me, and I rode twenty miles thatnight with him there. He recovered consciousness an hour before wereached the Khan's stronghold, and, as I expected, awoke, as if fromsleep, refreshed and ready for any exertion. We had no time forexplanations. 

"You were drugged, " I said, "by some native spy, who must have gotwind of the intended attack to-night. I knew that the stuff wouldhave to run its course, so I did not physic you, but brought youalong with the column. "

I am glad to say he believed me. 

Some one found me a restless field-artillery horse which was givingthe gunners a lot of trouble, and I rode back to Oadpur alone--nothaving any business at the front. As I approached the old GateHouse, the flutter of a white dress caught my eye. It was almostdawn, and a pink haze hung over the paddy-fields. The world hadthat appearance of peace and cleanliness which is left by thepassage of an Indian night. My rooms were on the ground-floor, andit seemed to me that, at the sound of my horse's feet, some one hadcome out of them to pass up the stone stairs that led to Graham'squarters. As I slipped out of the saddle the sound of a distantcannon broke the silence of the night, and my horse, despite hisforty miles accomplished in little more than five hours, pricked uphis ears. I tied him up, and instead of going to my own rooms wentupstairs. 

Miss Watson was standing in the first room I entered. The quicktropic dawn had come, and I saw the face of a woman who had notslept. 

"Major Graham's servant told me that he was ill. I have--a--a rightto know how he is, and where he is, " she said with her imperturbableself-possession. 

"Graham is at the front, " I answered, and the sound of the cannon, dull and distant, finished the sentence for me. 

Bertha Watson bit her lip to hide its quivering, and looked at me, breathing hard. 

"We have rung up the curtain, " I added, remembering our talk in theverandah of the Residency. 

"How did he get there?"

"Across my saddle in a state of insensibility, which passed off, asI expected it would, an hour before the time fixed for the stormingof the fortifications. Some one drugged him in order that he mightnot take part in this action. Some one who feared him--or for him. Le Mesurier-Groselin called me to him, and only we three know of it. I am the only medical man connected with the affair, and I cancertify that it was a native drug that was used, and that thereforea native must have done this thing. Probably a native spy, MissWatson, who, finding out the proposed surprise too late to warn therebels, attempted to disorganize the force by this means. Do youunderstand?"

She looked at me with all her keen wits in her eyes. 

"No one would ever dream that another had done it--say some one whowas attached to Graham, and who, in a panic, gave way to temptationand did him a great wrong, while saving him from danger. "

I stood aside as I spoke and motioned her towards the door, for theplace would soon be astir. 

"My!" she exclaimed. "And I reckoned you were a fool--behind thatsingle eye-glass. It is not you that is the fool, doctor. "

Then suddenly she turned at the head of the stairs and whisperedhoarsely -

"And if he is killed?"

"That is what he is paid for, Miss Watson. We can only wait andhope that he isn't. "

Austin Graham was not killed, but came back with, as the Brigadiersaid, the Victoria Cross up his sleeve. I happened to be nearBertha Watson when they met, and there was that in her eyes whenthey encountered his which was a revelation to me and makes merealize even now what a lonely man I am. 

TOMASO'S FORTUNE

"You talk of poor men, Senora--then you talk of me. See, I havenothing but the wits that are under my hat. "

And Felipe Fortis spread himself out on the trellis-bordered benchof the little Venta that stands at the junction of the ValdemosaRoad and the new road from Miramar to Palma in the island ofMajorca. 

Felipe was, of course, known to be a young man of present positionand future prospects, or he would not have said such a thing. Itwas supposed, indeed, by some, to be a great condescension that heshould stop at the little Venta of the Break of Day and take hishalf of wine on market-days. And, of course, there were women whoeagerly sought the woman in it, and said that Felipe drank the widowNavarro's sour wine to the bright eyes of the widow's daughter. 

"No such luck for her, " said Rosa's cousins and aunts, who weredotted all up the slopes of the valley on either side in theirlittle stone cottages; right up from the river to the Val d'Erraha--that sunny valley of repose which lies far above the capital ofMajorca, far above the hum of life and sound of the restless sea. 

Felipe, who was a good-looking young fellow, threw his hat down onthe bench beside him. He had fair hair and a white skin--both, heunderstood, much admired by the dark-eyed daughters of the Baleares. He shook his finger with a playful condescension at the widowNavarro, with whom he was always kind enough to exchange a few lightpleasantries. And she, womanlike, suited her fire to the calibre ofthe foe, for she was an innkeeper. 

"That is all--the wits that are under my hat, " he repeated. 

And Rosa, who was standing in the deep shadow of the doorway, muttered to herself -

"Then you are indeed a poor man. "

Felipe glanced towards her, and wondered whether the sun was shiningsatisfactorily through the trellis on his fair hair. 

Rosa looked at him with inscrutable eyes--deep as velvet, grave andmeditative. She was slight and girlish, with dull blue-black hair, and a face that might have been faithfully cut on a cameo. It wasthe colour of a sun-burnt peach, and usually wore that air of gentlepride which the Moors seem to have left behind them in those landsthrough which they passed, to the people upon whom they haveimpressed an indelible mark. But when she smiled, which was notoften, her lips tilted suddenly at the corners in a way to make anold man young and a young man mad. 

Tomaso of the Mill, who sat on the low wall across the road in theshadow of a great fig-tree, was watching with steady eyes. Tomasowas always watching Rosa. He had watched for years. She had grownup under that steady eye. And now, staring into the deep shadow ofthe cottage interior, he thought that he saw Rosa smile upon Felipe. And Felipe, of course, concluded that she was smiling at him. Theyall did that. And only Rosa knew the words she had whisperedrespecting the gallant Felipe. 

Tomaso of the Mill was a poor man if you like, and usuallyconsidered a dull one to boot. He only had the mill half-way up thehill to the Val d'Erraha--a mill to which no grist came now thatthere was steam communication between Palma and Barcelona, and itpaid better to ship the produce of the island to the mainland, buying in return the adulterated produce of the Barcelona mills. Tomaso's father had been a prosperous man almost to the day of hisdeath, but times had moved on, leaving Tomaso and his mill behind. And there is no man who watches the times move past him with aprouder silence than a Spaniard. The mill hardly brought in tenpesetas a month now, and that was from friends--poor men likehimself who were yet gentlemen, and found some carefully wordedreason why they preferred home-milled flour. Tomaso, moreover, wasdeadly simple: there is nothing more fatal than simplicity in thesedays. It never occurred to him to sell his mill, or let it fall inruins and go elsewhere for work. His world had always been boundedon the south by the Val d'Erraha, on the north by the Valdemosaroad, on the west by the sea, and on the east by Rosa. He had neversuffered from absolute hunger, and nothing but absolute hunger willmake a Spaniard leave his home. So Tomaso of the Mill remained atthe mill, and, like his forefathers, only repaired the sluices andconduit when the water-supply was no longer heavy enough to drivethe creaking wheel. 

Since the death of his mother he had lived alone, cooking his ownfood, washing his own clothes, and no man in the valley wore awhiter shirt. As to the food, perhaps there was not too much of it, or it may have been badly cooked; for Tomaso had a lean and hungrylook, and his tanned cheek had diagonal lines drawn from the cheek-bone to the corner of the clean-shaven mouth. The lips were firm, the chin was long. It was a solemn face that looked out frombeneath the shadow of the great fig-tree. And--there was nomistaking it--it was the face of that which the world calls agentleman. 

Felipe turned towards him in his good-natured grand way, and invitedhim by a jerk of the head to come and partake of his half-bottle ofMajorcan wine. There was a great gulf between these two men, forTomaso wore no jacket and Felipe was never seen without one. Tomasotherefore accepted the invitation with a grave courtesy. Felipeknew his manners also. He poured a few drops into his own glass, for fear the cork should have left a grain of dust, and then filledhis guest's little thick tumbler to the brim. They touched glassesgravely and drank, Felipe making a swinging gesture towards Rosa inthe dark doorway before raising the glass to his lips. 

"And affairs at the mill?" inquired Felipe, with a movement of thehand demanding pardon if the subject should be painful. 

"The wheel is still, " replied Tomaso, with that grand air ofindifference with which Spain must eventually go to the wall. Heslowly unrolled and re-rolled a cheap cigarette, and sat down on thebench opposite to Felipe. 

Felipe looked at him with that bright and good-natured smile whichwas known to be so deadly. He spread out his arms in a gesture oflofty indifference. 

"What will you?" he asked, with a laugh. "It will come--yourfortune. "

And Tomaso smiled gravely. He was quite convinced also, in hissimple way, that his fortune would come; for it had been predictedby a gipsy from Granada at the Trinity Fair on the little crowdedmarket-place at Palma. The prediction had caught the popular fancy. Tomaso's poverty, it must be remembered, was a proverb all over theisland. "As poor as Tomaso of the Mill, " the people said; it beingunderstood that a church mouse failed to suggest such destitution. Moreover, the gipsy foretold that Tomaso should make his own fortunewith his own two hands, which added to the joke, for no one inMajorca is guilty of such manual energy as will lead to more than asufficiency. 

"Now, I say, " continued Felipe, turning to the widow with thatunconscious way of discussing some one who happens to be presentwhich is only understood in Southern worlds. "Now, I say that whenit comes, it will have something to do with horses. See how he sitsin the saddle!"

And Felipe sketched perfection with a little gesture of his brownhand, which was generous of Felipe; for Tomaso was (by one of thosestrange chances which lead the Spaniards to say that God gives nutsto those who have no teeth) a born horseman, and sat in the saddlelike a god--one straight line from heel to shoulder. 

Tomaso had risen from the bench and walked slowly across the road tohis former seat on the low wall. He was a shy and rather modestman, and felt, perhaps, that there was a suggestion of condescensionin Felipe's attitude. If Felipe had come here to pay his addressesto Rosa, he, Tomaso, was not the man to put difficulties in the way. For he was one of those rare men who, in loving, place themselves inthe background. He loved Rosa, in a word, better than he lovedhimself. And in the solitude of his life at the mill he had workedout a grim problem in his own mind. He had weighed himselfcarefully in the balance, nothing extenuating. He had taken asprecise a measure of Felipe Fortis with his present position and hisfuture prospects. And, of course, the only solution was that Rosawould do well to marry Felipe. So Tomaso withdrew to the outer sideof the road and the shade of the fig-tree, while Felipe talked gailywith Rosa's mother, and Rosa looked on from the doorway with deep, dark eyes that said nothing at all. For Felipe was wooing thedaughter through the mother, as men have often done before him; andthe widow smiled on Felipe's suit. The whole business, it appeared, was to be conducted in a sane and gentlemanly way, over a half ofthe widow's wine, with clinking glasses and a grave politeness. And, of course, Felipe had it all his own way. The question ofrivalry did not so much as suggest itself to him, so he could themore easily be kind to the quiet man with the steady eyes whowithdrew with such tact when he had finished his wine. 

Of course, there was Tomaso's fortune to take into consideration. No one seemed to think of doubting that the prediction musteventually come true, but it was hardly likely to be verified intime to convert Tomaso into a serious rival to Felipe Fortis. Therewere assuredly no fortunes to be made out of the half-ruined mill. The trade had left that for ever. There was no money in the wholevalley, and Tomaso did not seem disposed to go and seek itelsewhere. He passed his time between the mill and the low wallopposite the Venta of the Break of Day, of which the stones beneaththe fig-tree were polished with his constant use of them. Heusually came down from the mill, which is a mile above the Venta, asany one may prove who seeks the Valley of Repose to-day, by the newroad recently cut on the hillside by a spasmodically active TownCouncil--the road from Miramar to Palma. 

It had been at one time supposed that Tomaso's fortune would come tohim through this new road, for the construction of which a portionof the land attached to the mill must be purchased. But it was avery small portion, and the purchase-money a ridiculous little sum, which was immediately swallowed up in repairs to the creaking wheel. The road-makers, however, turned aside the stream below the mill, and conducted it to a chasm in the rock, where it fell a greatheight to a tunnel beneath the road. And half the valley said theycould not sleep for the sound of it, and the other half said theyliked it. And Rosa, whose bedroom window was nearer to it than anyother in the valley, said nothing at all. 

Sitting beneath the fig-tree, Tomaso looked up suddenly towards themill. He was so much accustomed to the roar of his own mill-streamthat his ears never heeded it, and heard through it softer and moredistant sounds. He heard something now--the regular beat oftrotting horses on the road far above his home. He looked uptowards the heights, though, of course, he could see nothing throughthe pines, which are thickly planted here and almost as large as thepines of Vizzavona, in the island of Corsica. He listened to thesound with that quiet interest which comes to those who live inconstant sunshine, and is in itself nearly akin to indifference. 

"What is it?" asked the widow, noting his attitude. 

"It is a carriage on the new road--some traveller from Miramar. "

Travellers from Miramar were few and far between. None had as yetmade use of the new road. This was, therefore, a matter ofconsiderable interest to the four persons idling away the afternoonat the Venta of the Break of Day. 

"The horses will as likely as not take fright at the new waterfallmade by these mules of road-makers, " said Tomaso, rising slowly andthrowing away the end of his cigarette. 

He took his stand in the middle of the road, looking uphill with agleam of interest in his eyes. He knew horses so well that hisopinion arrested the attention of his hearers. Tomaso had alwayssaid that the diversion of his mill-stream would be dangerous to thetraffic on the new road. But it was nobody's business to consultTomaso. 

He stood in the middle of the road, contemplatively biting his lowerlip--a lean, lithe man, who had lived a clean and simple life--andnever dreamt that this might be his fortune trotting down the newMiramar road towards him. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, curtly. 

The steady pace was suddenly broken, and at the same moment thehollow roar of the wheels told that the carriage was passing overthe little tunnel through which the stream escaped to the valleybelow. Then came the clatter of frightened horses and the brokencry of one behind them. Felipe leapt to his feet and stoodirresolute. The widow gave a little cry of fear, and Rosa came outinto the sunlight. There the three stood, rigid, watching Tomasocontemplatively biting his lip in the middle of the sun-lit road. 

In a moment the suspense was over--the worst was realized. Acarriage swung round the corner a quarter of a mile higher up theroad, with two horses stretched at a frantic gallop, and the driverhad no reins in his hand; for his reins had broken, and the looseends fluttered on either side. He was stooping forward, with hisright hand at the screw-brake between his legs, and in his left handhe swung his heavy whip. He was a brave man, at all events, for hekept his nerve and tried to guide the horses with his whip. Therewas just a bare chance that he might reach the Venta, but below it--not a hundred yards below it--the road turned sharply to the right, and everything failing to take that sharp turn would leap into spaceand the rocky bed of the river five hundred feet below. 

The man gave a shout as he came round the corner, and to his creditit was always remembered that his gesture waved Tomaso aside. ButTomaso stood in the middle of the road, and his steady eyes suddenlyblazed with a fierce excitement. His lips were apart. He wasbreathless, and Rosa found herself with her two hands at her throat, watching him. 

The carriage seemed to bear right down upon him, but he must havestepped aside, for it passed on and left the road clear. Tomaso wassomewhat in the dust, in the confusion of tossing heads and flyingreins. Then his white shirt appeared against the black of thehorses' manes. 

"Name of God!" cried Felipe; "he is on top!"

And Felipe Fortis forgot his fine clothes and superior manners. Hewas out on the road in an instant, running as he never ran before, and shouting a hundred Catalonian oaths which cannot be transcribedhere, even in Catalonian. 

It was difficult to see what happened during these moments whichwere just those instants of time in which one man does well andanother badly. But Rosa and her mother saw at length that Tomasowas apparently half standing on the pole between the two horses. Hewas swinging and jerking from side to side, but all the while he wasgathering the scattered reins in his hands. Then suddenly he threwhimself back, and the horses' heads went up as if they were beingstrangled. They jerked and tugged in vain. Tomaso's arms were likesteel. Already the pace was slackening--the gallop was broken. Anda minute later the carriage was at a standstill in the ditch. 

Already the driver was on the ground explaining excitedly to Tomasohow it had happened, and Tomaso was smiling gravely as he wiped someblood from his hand. It was Felipe who, arriving at this moment, thought of opening the carriage-door. There was a pause whileFelipe looked into the carriage, and Rosa and her mother ran towardshim. Rosa helped Felipe to assist an old man to alight. He was avery fat man, with grey and flaccid cheeks, with shiny black hairand a good deal of gold chain and ring about him. He seemed onlyhalf-conscious of the assistance proffered to him, and walked slowlyacross the road to the shade of the trees. Here he sat down on thelow wall, with his elbows on his knees, his two hands to his head, and looked thoughtfully at the ground between his feet. It wasprecisely the attitude of one who has had a purler at football. Andthe others looked on in the waiting silence which usuallycharacterizes such moments. 

"The gentleman is not hurt?" suggested Felipe, who was alwaysaffable and ready with his tongue. 

But the gentleman was not prepared to confirm this optimistic viewof the case. He simply sat staring at the ground between his feet. At length he lifted his head and looked Felipe slowly up and down. 

"Who stopped the horses?" he asked. "A man in a white shirt. "

"It was Tomaso of the Mill, " answered the widow, who would havespoken sooner if she had had her breath. "He washes his own, " sheadded, anxious to say a good word for a neighbour. 

Tomaso should, of course, have come forward and bowed. But Tomaso'smanners were not of a showy description. He was helping the driverto repair the reins, and paused at this moment to remove theperspiration from his forehead with two fingers, which hesubsequently wiped on the seam of his trousers. 

"He!" cried the fat man sitting on the wall. 

One could see that he was a business man; for he had the curt mannerof the counting-house. 

"He, Tomaso!" added the widow Navarro, in a shrill voice. 

And Tomaso came slowly forward. 

"Your name?" said the man of business. 

"Tomaso. "

"Tomaso what?"

"Tomaso of the Mill. " And his face fell a little when the fat manproduced a pocket-book and wrote the name down with a shaking hand. The action rather savoured of the police and the law, and Tomaso didnot like it. 

The stout man leant forward with his chin in the palm of his handand reflected for some moments. He was singularly reflective, andseemed to be making a mental calculation. 

"See here, " he said at length, looking at Tomaso with quickbusiness-like eyes. He was beginning to recover his colour now. "See here, I am not going to give you money--between gentlemen, eh!such things are not done. You have saved my life. Good! You are abrave man, and you risked your neck for a perfect stranger! Ihappen to be a rich man, and my life is of some value. I came fromBarcelona to Majorca on business--business with a good profit. If Ihad gone over there"--he paused, and jerked his thumb towards theblue and hazy space that lay below them--"the transaction would havefallen through. You have enabled me, by your prompt action, toreturn to Palma this evening and sign the papers connected with thisaffair. Good! You are therefore entitled to a commission on theprofit that I shall make. I have reckoned it out. It amounts toten thousand pesetas--a modest fortune, eh?"

Tomaso nodded his head. He had always known that it would come. The widow Navarro threw up her eyes, and in a whisper called theattention of her own special black-letter saint to this business. Rosa was glancing surreptitiously at Felipe, who, to do him justice, was smiling on the old man with much appreciation. 

"You see what I am, " continued the man of business, tapping hisexuberant waistcoat; "I am fat and I am sixty-seven. When I returnto Palma, I shall notify to a lawyer that I leave to you, 'Tomaso ofthe Mill, ' ten thousand pesetas, to be paid as soon after my deathas possible. At Barcelona I shall put the matter into legal formwith my own notary there. "

He rose from his seat on the wall and held out his thick white hand, which Tomaso took, and they shook hands gravely. 

"As between gentlemen, eh?" said he; "as between gentlemen. "

Then he walked slowly to the other side of the road, where thedriver was engaged in drawing his carriage out of the ditch. 

"I will enter your malediction of a carriage, " he said, "but youmust lead the horses to the bottom of the hill. "

The carriage went slowly on its way, while the others, afterwatching it turn the corner, returned to the Venta. In thetwinkling of an eye Tomaso's fortune had come. And he had won itwith his own hands, precisely as the gipsy from Granada hadpredicted. The tale, moreover, is true, and any one can verify itwho will take the trouble to go to Palma de Mallorca, where half adozen independent witnesses heard the prediction made at a stall inthe crowded and narrow market-place nearly six months before the newMiramar road was completed. 

As it was getting dusk, Felipe Fortis mounted his horse and rode onto his home in the valley far down the Valdemosa road. And Tomaso, with his handkerchief bound round his hand, walked thoughtfully upto his solitary home. The great problem which he had thought out socarefully and brought to so grim and certain a conclusion hadsuddenly been reopened. And Rosa had noticed with the quickness ofher sex that Tomaso had carefully avoided looking at her from themoment that his good fortune had been made known. His manner, as hebade mother and daughter a gruff good-night was rather that of amalefactor than one who had just done a meritorious action, and Rosawatched him go with an odd little wise smile tilting the corners ofher lips. 

"Goodnight, " she said. "You--and your fortune. "

And Tomaso turned the words over and over in his mind a hundredtimes, and could make nothing of them. 

Rosa was early astir the next morning, and happened to be at theopen door when Tomaso came down the road. He was wearing his besthat--a flat-brimmed black felt--which, no doubt, the girl noticed, for it is by the piecing together of such trifles that women holdtheir own in this world. There was otherwise no change in Tomaso'shabiliments, which consisted, as usual, of dark trousers, a whiteshirt, and a dark-blue faja or waistcloth. 

"Where are you going?" cried Rosa, stepping out into the sunlightwith a haste called forth, perhaps, by the suspicion that Tomasowould fain have passed by unnoticed. 

He stopped, his bronzed face a deeper red, his steady eyes waveringfor once. But he did not come towards the Venta, which stands onthe higher side of the road. 

"I am going down to Palma--to make sure. "

"Of your fortune?" inquired Rosa, looking at the cup she was dryingwith the air of superior knowledge which so completely puzzled thesimple Tomaso. 

"Yes, " he answered, slowly turning on his heel as if to continue hisjourney. 

"And then--?" asked Rosa. 

He looked up inquiringly. 

"When you have made sure of your precious fortune?" she explained. 

She had raised her hand to her hair, and was standing in a verypretty, indifferent attitude. Tomaso held his lower lip between histeeth as he looked at her. 

"I don't know what I shall do with it, " he answered, and, turning, he walked hurriedly down the sun-lit road. 

"Come in on your way back and tell us about it, " she called outafter him, and then stood watching him until he turned the cornerwhere he had picked up his fortune on the road the day before. 

It was characteristic of the man that he never turned to look ather, and the girl gave a little nod of the head as he disappeared. She had apparently expected him not to look back, and yet wanted himto do it, and at the same time would rather he did not do it. Felipe Fortis would have turned half a dozen times, with asalutation and a wave of the hat. 

But the sun went down behind the tableland of the Val d'Erraha andTomaso did not return. Then the moon rose, large and yellow, beyondthe Valdemosa Heights, and the widow Navarro, her day's work done, walked slowly up the road to visit her sister, the road-keeper'swife. Rosa sat on the bench beneath the trellis, and thought thoselong thoughts that belong to youth. She heard Tomaso's step longbefore he came in sight, for the valley is thinly populated and asstill as Sahara. He was walking slowly, and dragged his feet as iffatigued. The moon was now well up, and the girl could distinguishTomaso's gleaming white shirt as he turned the corner. As heapproached he kept on the left-hand side of the road. It wasevident that he intended to call at the Venta. 

"He--Tomaso!" cried Rosa, when he was almost at the steps. 

"He--Rosa!" he answered. 

"I am all alone, " said Rosa. "Mother has gone to see Aunt Luisa. Have you your fortune in your pocket?"

He came up the steps and leant against the trellis, looking down ather. She could not see his face, but a woman does not always needto do that. 

"What is it--Tomaso?" she asked gravely. 

"That poor man, " he explained simply--for the Spaniards hold humanlife but cheaply--"was found dead in his carriage when they reachedPalma. The doctors say it was the shock--and he so fat. At allevents he is dead. "

Rosa crossed herself mechanically, and devoutly thought first of allof the merchant's future state. 

"His last action was a good one, " she said. "There is that toremember. "

"Yes, " said Tomaso, in a queer voice. And at the sound Rosa lookedup at him sharply; but she could see nothing, for his face was inthe shadow. 

"And as for you, " she said tentatively, "you will get your fortuneall the sooner. "

"I shall never get it at all, " answered Tomaso, with a curt laugh. "I went down to Palma this morning with my head full of plans--inthe sunshine. I came back with an empty brain--in the dark. "

He stood motionless, looking down at her. They are slow of tonguein Majorca, and Rosa reflected for quite a minute before she spoke--which is saying a good deal for a woman. 

"Tell me, " she said at length, gently, "why is it that you will notget your fortune?"

"I went to the notary and told him what had happened, what themerchant had said, and who had heard him--and the notary laughed. 'Where is your paper?' he asked; and, of course, I had no paper. Iwent to another notary, and at last I saw the Alcalde. 'You shouldhave asked for a paper properly signed, ' he said. But no gentlemancould have asked for that. "

"No, " replied Rosa, rather doubtfully. 

"I found the driver of the carriage, " continued Tomaso, "and tookhim to the Alcalde, but that was no better. The Alcalde and thenotaries laughed at us. Such a story, they said, would make anylawyer laugh. "

"But there is Felipe Fortis, who heard it too. "

"Yes, " answered Tomaso, in a hollow voice, "there is Felipe Fortis. He was in Palma, and I found him at the cafe. But he said he hadnot time to come to the Alcalde with me then, and he was sure thatif he did it would be useless. "

"Ah!" said Rosa. 

She got up and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking down intothe moonlit valley in silence for some minutes. Then she cameslowly back, and stood before him looking up into his face. He washead and shoulders above her. 

"So your fortune is gone?" she said. And the moonlight shining onher face betrayed the presence of that fleeting wise smile whichTomaso had noticed more than once with wonder. 

"Yes--it is gone. And there is an end of it. "

"Of what?" asked Rosa. 

"Oh!--of everything, " replied Tomaso, with a grim stoicism. 

Rosa stood looking at him for a moment. Then she took twodeliberate steps forward and leant against him just as he wasleaning against the trellis, as if he had been a tree or somethingsolid and reliable of that sort. She laid her cheek, of a deepercolour than a sunburnt peach, against his white shirt. In a sort ofparenthesis of thought she took a sudden, half-maternal interest inthe middle button of his shirt, tested it, and found it more firmlyfixed than she had supposed. Her dusky hair just brushed his chin. 

"Then you are nothing but a stupid, " she said. 

STRANDED

 "Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit a la gloire. "

It was nearly half-past eight when the Grandhaven ran into a fog-bank, and the second officer sent a message to the captain'ssteward, waiting at that great man's dinner-table in the saloon. 

The captain's steward was a discreet man. He gave the message in awhisper as he swept the crumbs from the table with a jerk of hisnapkin. The second officer could not, of course, reduce speed onhis own responsibility. The Grandhaven had been running throughfog-banks ever since she left Plymouth in the grey of a Novemberafternoon. 

Every Atlantic traveller knows the Grandhaven. She was so wellknown that every berth was engaged despite the lateness of theseason. It was considered a privilege to sail with Captain Dixon, the most popular man on the wide seas. A few millionairesconsidered themselves honoured by his friendship. One or two ofthem called him Tom on shore. He was an Englishman, though theGrandhaven was technically an American ship. His enemies said thathe owed his success in life to his manners, which certainly wereexcellent. Not too familiar with any one at sea, but unerringlydiscriminating between man and man, between a real position and animaginary one. For, in the greatest Republic the world has yetseen, men are keenly alive to social distinctions. 

On the other hand, his friends pointed to his record. Captain Dixonhad never made a mistake in seamanship. 

He was a handsome man, with a trim brown beard cut to a point in thenaval style, gay blue eyes, and a bluff way of carrying his head. The lady passengers invariably fell into the habit of describing himas a splendid man, and the word seemed to fit him like a glove. Nature had certainly designed him to be shown somewhere in the frontof life, to be placed upon a dais and looked up to and admired bythe multitude. She had written success upon his sunburnt face. 

He had thousands of friends. Every seat at his table was booked twovoyages ahead, and he knew the value of popularity. He was nevercarried off his feet, but enjoyed it simply and heartily. He hadfallen in love one summer voyage with a tall and soft-manneredCanadian girl, a Hebe with the face of a Madonna, with thoughtful, waiting blue eyes. She was only nineteen, and, of course, CaptainDixon carried everything before him. The girl was astonished at hergood fortune; for this wooer was a king on his own great decks. Noprincess could be good enough for him, had princesses been in thehabit of crossing the Atlantic. Captain Dixon had now been marriedsome years. 

His marriage had made a perceptible change in the personnel of hisintimates. A bachelor captain appeals to a different world. He wasstill a great favourite with men. 

Although the Grandhaven had only been one night at sea, thecaptain's table had no vacant seats. These were all old travellers, and there had been libations poured to the gods, now made manifestby empty bottles and not a little empty laughter. Dixon, however, was steady enough. He had reluctantly accepted one glass ofchampagne from the bottle of a Senator powerful in shipping circles. He and his officers made a point of drinking water at table. Themodern sailor is one of the startling products of these odd times. He dresses for dinner, and when off duty may be found sitting on thesaloon stairs discussing with a lady passenger the respective meritsof Wagner and Chopin as set forth by the ship's band, when he oughtto be asleep in bed in preparation for the middle watch. 

The captain received the message with a curt nod. But he did notrise from the table. He knew that a hundred eyes were upon him, watching his every glance. If he jumped up and hurried from thetable, the night's rest of half a hundred ladies would inevitablysuffer. 

He took his watch from his pocket and rose, laughing at some sallymade by a neighbour. As he passed down the length of the saloon, hepaused to greet one and exchange a laughing word with another. Hewas a very gracious monarch. 

On deck it was wet and cold. A keen wind from the north-west seemedto promise a heavy sea and a dirty night when the Lizard should bepassed and the protection of the high Cornish moorlands left behind. The captain's cabin was at the head of the saloon stairs. CaptainDixon lost no time in changing his smart mess-jacket for a thickercoat. Oilskins and a sou'wester transformed him again to the seamanthat he was, and he climbed the narrow iron ladder into the howlingdarkness of the upper bridge with a brisk readiness to meet anysituation. 

The fog-bank was a thick one. It was like a sheet of wet cotton-wool laid upon the troubled breast of the sea. The lights at theforward end of the huge steamer were barely visible. There was noglare aloft where the masthead light stared unwinking into the mist. 

Dixon exchanged a few words with the second officer, who stood, rather restless, by the engine-room telegraph. They spoke inmonosyllables. The dial showed "Full speed ahead. " Captain Dixonstood chewing the end of his golden moustache, which he had drawn inbetween his teeth. He looked forward and aft and up aloft in threequick movements of the head. Then he laid his two hands on theengine-room telegraph and reduced the pace to half-speed. Therewere a hundred people on board who would take note of it with athrob of uneasiness at their hearts, but that could not be helped. 

The second officer stepped sideways into the chart-room, reluctantto turn his eyes elsewhere than dead ahead into the wind and mist, to make a note in two books that lay open on the table under theshaded electric lamp. It was twenty minutes to nine. 

The Grandhaven was a quick ship, but she was also a safe one. Thecaptain had laid a course close under the Lizard lights. Heintended to alter it, but not yet. The mist might lift. There wasplenty of time, for by dead reckoning they could scarcely hope tosight the twin lights before eleven o'clock. The captain turned andsaid a single word to his second officer, and a moment later thegreat fog-horn above them in the darkness coughed out its deafeningnote of warning. A dead silence followed. Captain Dixon nodded hishead with a curt grunt of satisfaction. There was nothing nearthem. They could carry on, playing their game of blindman's-buffwith Fate, open-eared, steady, watchful. 

There was no music to-night, though the band had played thecheeriest items of its repertoire outside the saloon door duringdinner. Many of the passengers were in their cabins already, forthe Grandhaven was rolling gently on the shoulder of the Atlanticswell. The sea was heavy, but not so heavy as they would certainlyencounter west of the Land's End. Presently the Grandhaven creptout into a clear space, leaving the fog-bank in rolling clouds likecannon-smoke behind her. 

"Ah!" said Captain Dixon, with a sigh of relief; he had never beenreally anxious. 

The face of the second officer, ruddy and glistening with wet, lighted up suddenly, and sundry lines around his eyes were wipedaway as if by the passage of a sponge as he stooped over thebinnacle. Almost at once his face clouded again. 

"There is another light ahead, " he muttered. "Hang them. "

The captain gave a short laugh to reassure his subordinate, whom heknew to be an anxious, careful man, on his promotion. Captain Dixonwas always self-confident. That glass of champagne from theSenator's hospitable bottle made him feel doubly capable to-night totake his ship out into the open Atlantic, and then to bed with thateasy heart which a skipper only knows on the high seas. 

Suddenly he turned to look sharply at his companion, whose eyes werefixed on the fog-bank, which was now looming high above the bows. There were stars above them, but no moon would be up for anotherthree hours. Dixon seemed to be about to say something, but changedhis mind. He raised his hands to the ear-flaps of his sou'wester, and, loosening the string under his chin, pushed the flannel lappetsup within the cap. The second officer wore the ordinary seafaringcap known as a cheese-cutter. He was much too anxious a man tocover his ears even in clear weather, and said, with his nervouslaugh, that the colour did not come out of his hair, if any onesuggested that the warmer headgear would protect him from rain andspray. 

Dixon stood nearer to his companion, and they stood side by side, looking into the fog-bank, which was now upon them. 

"Any dogs on board?" he asked casually. 

"No--why do you ask?"

"Thought I heard a little bell; such a thing as a lady's lap-dogwears round his neck on a ribbon. "

The second officer turned and glanced sharply up at the captain, who, however, made no further comment, and seemed to be thinking ofsomething else. 

"Couldn't have been a bell-buoy, I suppose?" he suggested, with atentative laugh as he pushed his cap upwards away from his ears. 

"No bell-buoys out here, " replied the captain, rather sharply, withhis usual self-confidence. 

They stood side by side in silence for five minutes or more. Themist was a little thinner now, and Captain Dixon looked upwards tothe sky, hoping to see the stars. He was looking up when thesteamer struck, and the shock threw him against the after rail ofthe bridge. The second officer was thrown to the ground andstruggled there for an instant before getting to his feet again. 

"God Almighty!" he said, and that was all. 

Captain Dixon was already at the engine-room telegraph wrenching thepointer round to full speed ahead. The quartermaster on watch wasat his side in a moment, and several men in shining oilskins swarmedup the ladder to the bridge for their orders. 

The Grandhaven was quite still now, but trembling like a horse thathad stumbled badly and recovered itself with dripping knees. Already the seas were beating the bluff sides of the great vessel, throwing pyramids of spray high above the funnels. 

Captain Dixon grabbed the nearest man by the arm. 

"The boats, " he shouted in his ear. "Tell Mr. Stoke to take charge. Tell him it's the Manacles. "

There seemed to be no danger, for the ship was quite steady, withlevel decks. Turning to another quartermaster, Dixon gave furtherorders clearly and concisely. 

"Keep her at that, " he said to the second officer, indicating thedial of the engine-room. 

"Stay where you are!" he shouted to the two steersmen who werepreparing to quit the wheelhouse. 

If Captain Dixon had never made a mistake in seamanship he must havethought out the possibilities of this mistake in all their bearings. For the situation was quite clear and compact in his mind. Theorders he gave came in their proper sequence and were given to theright men. 

From the decks beneath arose a confused murmur like the stirring ofbees in an overturned hive. Then a sharp order in one voice, clearand strong, followed by a dead silence. 

"Good!" said the captain. "Stoke has got 'em in hand. "

He broke off and looked sharply fore and aft and up above him at thetowering funnel. 

"She is heeling, " he said. "Martin, she's heeling. "

The ship was slowly turning on her side, like some huge and strickendumb animal laying itself down to die. 

"Yes, " said the captain with a bitter laugh, to the two steersmenwho had come a second time to the threshold of the wheel-house, "yes, you can go. "

He turned to the engine-room telegraph and rang the "Stand by. " Butthere was no answer. The engineers had come on deck. 

"She's got to go, " said Martin, the second officer, deliberately. 

"You had better follow them, " replied the captain, with a jerk ofhis head towards the ladder down which the two steersmen haddisappeared. 

"Go, be d---d, " said Martin. "My place is here. " There was nonervousness about the man now. 

The murmur on the decks had suddenly risen to shrieks and angryshouts. Some were getting ready to die in a most unseemly manner. They were fighting for the boats. The clear, strong voice hadceased giving orders. It afterwards transpired that the chiefofficer, Stoke, was engaged at this time on the sloping decks intying lifebelts round the women and throwing them overboard, despitetheir shrieks and struggles. The coastguards found these womenstrewn along the beach like wreckage below St. Keverne--some thatnight, some at dawn--and only two were dead. 

The captain snapped his finger and thumb, a gesture of annoyancewhich was habitual to him. Martin knew the meaning of the sound, which he heard through the shouting and the roar of the wind and thehissing of a cloud of steam. He placed his hand on the deck of thebridge as if to feel it. He had only to stretch out his arm totouch the timbers, for the vessel was lying over farther now. Therewas no vibration beneath his hand; the engines had ceased to work. 

"Yes, " said Dixon, who was holding to the rail in front of him withboth hands. "Yes, she has got to go. "

And as he spoke the Grandhaven slid slowly backwards and sidewaysinto the deep water. The shrieks were suddenly increased, and thendied away in a confused gurgle. Martin slid down on to the captain, and together they shot into the sea. They sank through a stratum ofstruggling limbs. 

The village of St. Keverne lies nearly two miles from the sea, highabove it on the bare tableland that juts out ten miles to the Lizardlights. It is a rural village far from railway or harbour. Its menare agriculturists, following the plough and knowing but little ofthe sea, which is so far below them that they rarely descend to thebeach, and they do no business in the great waters. But theirchurchyard is full of drowned folk. There are one hundred and fourin one grave, one hundred and twenty in another, one hundred and sixin a third. An old St. Keverne man will slowly name thirty shipsand steamers wrecked in sight of the church steeple in the range ofhis memory. 

A quick-eared coastguard heard the sound of the escape of steam, which was almost instantly silenced. Then he heard nothing more. He went back to the station and made his report. He was so sure ofhis own ears that he took a lantern and went down to the beach. There he found nothing. He stumbled on towards Cadgwith along theunbroken beach. At times he covered his lantern and peered out tosea, but he saw nothing. At last something white caught his eye. It was half afloat amid the breakers. He went knee-deep and draggeda woman to the shore; she was quite dead. He held his lantern abovehis head and stared out to sea. The face of the water was fleckedwith dark shadows and white patches. He was alone, two miles fromhelp up a steep combe and through muddy lanes, and as he turned totrudge towards the cliffs his heart suddenly leapt to his throat. There was some one approaching him across the shingle. 

A strong deep voice called to him, with command and a certainresolution in its tones. 

"You, a coastguard?" it asked. 

"Yes. "

The man came up to him and gave him orders to go to the nearestvillage for help, for lanterns and carts. 

"What ship?" asked the coastguard. 

"Grandhaven, London, New Orleans, " was the answer. "Hurry, andbring as many men as you can. Got a boat about here?"

"There is one on the beach half a mile along to the south'ard. Butyou cannot launch her through this. "

"Oh yes, we can. "

The coastguard glanced at the man with a sudden interest. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

"Stoke--first mate, " was the reply. 

The rest of the story of the wreck has been told by abler pens inthe daily newspapers. How forty-seven people were saved; how thelifeboat from Cadgwith picked up some, floating insensible on theebbing tide with lifebuoys tied securely round them; how some menproved themselves great, and some women greater; how a few provedthemselves very contemptible indeed; how the quiet chief officer, Stoke, obeyed his captain's orders to take charge of thepassengers;--are not these things told by the newspapers? Some ofthem, especially the halfpenny ones, went further, and explained toa waiting world how it had all come about, and how easily it mighthave been avoided. They, moreover, dealt out blame and praise witha liberal hand, and condemned the owners or exonerated the captainwith the sublime wisdom which illumines Fleet Street. One and allagreed that because the captain was drowned he was not to blame, avery common and washy sentiment which appealed powerfully to themajority of their readers. Some of the newspapers, while agreeingthat the first officer, having saved many lives by his greatexertions during the night, and perfect organization for relief andhelp the next day, had made for himself an immortal name, hinteddarkly that the captain's was the better part, and that theypreferred to hear in such cases that all the officers had perished. 

Stoke despatched the surviving passengers by train from Helston backto London. They were not enthusiastic about him, neither did theysubscribe to present him with a service of plate. They thought himstern and unsympathetic. But before they had realized quite whathad happened they were back at their homes or with their friends. Many of the dead were recovered, and went to swell the heavy crop ofGod's seed sown in St. Keverne churchyard. It was Stoke whoorganized these quiet burials, and took a careful note of each name. It was he to whom the friends of the dead made their complaint ortook their tearful reminiscences, to both of which alike he gave anattentive hearing emphasized by the steady gaze of a pair of grey-blue eyes which many remembered afterwards without knowing why. 

"It is all right, " said the director of the great steamship companyin London. "Stoke is there. "

And they sent him money, and left him in charge at St. Keverne. Thenewspaper correspondents hurried thither, and several of themdescribed the wrong man as Stoke, while others, having identifiedhim, weighed him, and found him wanting in a proper sense of theirimportance. There was no "copy" in him, they said. He had noconception of the majesty of the Press. 

At length the survivors were all sent home and the dead thrown up bythe sea were buried. Martin, the second officer, was among these. They found the captain's pilot-jacket on the beach. He must havemade a fight for his life, and thrown aside his jacket for greaterease in swimming. Twenty-nine of the crew, eleven passengers, and astewardess were never found. The sea would never give them up nowuntil that day when she shall relinquish her hostages--mostlySpaniards and English--to come from the deep at the trumpet call. 

Stoke finished his business in St. Keverne and took the train toLondon. Never an expansive man, he was shut up now as the strongare shut up by a sorrow. The loss of the Grandhaven left a scar onhis heart which time could not heal. She had come to his care fromthe builder's yard. She had never known another husband. 

He was free now--free to turn to the hardest portion of his task. He had always sailed with Dixon, his life-long friend. They hadbeen boys together, had forced their way up the ladder together, hadunderstood each other all through. His friend's wife, by virtue ofher office perhaps, had come nearer to this man's grim and lonelyheart than any other woman. He had never defined this feeling; hehad not even gone back to its source as a woman would have done, orhe might have discovered that the gentle air of question or ofwaiting in her eyes which was not always there, but only when helooked for it, had been there long ago on a summer voyage before shewas Captain Dixon's wife at all. 

All through his long swim to shore, all through the horrors of thatNovember night and the long-drawn pain of the succeeding days, hehad done his duty with a steady impassiveness which was in keepingwith the square jaw, the resolute eyes, the firm and merciful lipsof the man; but he had only thought of Mary Dixon. His one thoughtwas that this must break her heart. 

It was this thought that made him hard and impassive. In the greatoffice in London he was received gravely. With a dull surprise henoted a quiver in the lips of the managing director when he shookhands. The great business man looked older and smaller and thinnerin this short time, for it is a terrible thing to have to deal inhuman lives, even if you are paid heavily for so doing. 

"There will be an official inquiry--you will have to face it, Stoke. "

"Yes, " he answered, almost indifferently. 

"And there is Dixon's wife. You will have to go and see her. Ihave been. She stays at home and takes her punishment quietly, unlike some of them. "

And two hours later he was waiting for Mary Dixon in the littledrawing-room of the house in a Kentish village which he had helpedDixon to furnish for her. She did not keep him long, and when shecame into the room he drew a sharp breath; but he had nothing to sayto her. She was tall and strongly made, with fair hair and delicatecolouring. She had no children, though she had been married sixyears, and Nature seemed to have designed her to be the mother ofstrong, quiet men. 

Stoke looked into her eyes, and immediately the expectant look cameinto them. There was something else behind it, a sort of veiledlight. 

"It was kind of you to come so soon, " she said, taking a chair bythe fireside. There was only one lamp in the room, and its lightscarcely reached her face. 

But for all the good he did in coming it would seem that he might aswell have stayed away, for he had no comfort to offer her. He drewforward a chair and sat down with that square slowness of movementwhich is natural to the limbs of men who deal exclusively withNature and action, and he looked into the fire without saying aword. Again it was she who spoke, and her words surprised the man, who had only dealt with women at sea, where women are not seen attheir best. 

"I do not want you to grieve for me, " she said quietly. "You haveenough trouble of your own without thinking of me. You have lostyour friend and your ship. "

He made a little movement of the lips, and glanced at her slowly, holding his lip between his teeth as he was wont to hold it duringthe moments of suspense before letting go the anchors in a crowdedroadstead as he stood at his post on the forecastle-head awaitingthe captain's signal. She was the first to divine what the ship hadbeen to him. Her eyes were waiting for his. They were alight witha gentle glow, which he took to be pity. She spoke calmly, and hervoice was always low and quiet. But he was quite sure that herheart was broken, and the thought must have been conveyed to her bythe silent messenger that passes to and fro between kindred minds. For she immediately took up his thought. 

"It is not, " she said, rather hurriedly, "as if it would break myheart. Long ago I used to think it would. I was very proud of himand of his popularity. But--"

And she said no more. But sat with dreaming eyes looking into thefire. After a long pause she spoke again. 

"So you must not grieve for me, " she said, returning persistently toher point. 

She was quite simple and honest. Hers was that rare wisdom which isgiven only to the pure in heart; for they see through into the soulof man and sift out the honest from among the false. 

It seemed that she had gained her object, for Stoke was visiblyrelieved. He told her many things which he had withheld from otherinquirers. He cleared Dixon's good name from anything but thatliability to error which is only human, and spoke of the captain'snerve and steadiness in the hour of danger. Insensibly they lapsedinto a low-voiced discussion of Dixon as of the character of a lostfriend equally dear to them both. 

Then he rose to take his leave before it was really necessary to goin order to catch his train, impatient to meet her eyes--which werewaiting for his--for a moment as they said good-bye, as the man whois the slave of a habit waits impatiently for the time when he cangive way to it. 

He went home to the rooms he always occupied near his club inLondon. There he found a number of letters which had been sent onfrom the steamship company's offices. The first he opened bore thepostmark of St. Just in Cornwall. It was from the coastguardcaptain of that remote western station, and it had been originallyposted to St. Keverne. 

"Dear Sir, " he wrote. "One of your crew or passengers has turned uphere on foot. He must have been wandering about for nearly a weekand is destitute. At times his mind is unhinged. He began to writea letter, but could not finish it, and gives no name. Please comeover and identify him. Meanwhile, I will take good care of him. "

Stoke opened the folded paper, which had dropped from the envelope. 

"Dear Jack, " it began. One or two sentences followed, but there wasno sequence or sense in them. The writing was that of Captain Dixonwithout its characteristic firmness or cohesion. 

Stoke glanced at his watch and took up his bag--a new bag hurriedlybought in Falmouth--stuffed full of a few necessities pressed uponhim by kind persons at St. Keverne when he stood among them in theclothes in which he had swum ashore, which had dried upon him duringa long November night. There was just time to catch the night mailto Penzance. Heaven was kind to him and gave him no time to think. 

The coach leaves Penzance at nine in the morning for a two hours'climb over bare moorland to St. Just--a little grey, remote town onthe western sea. The loneliness of the hills is emphasized here andthere by the ruin of an abandoned mine. St. Just itself, the veryacme of remoteness, is yearly diminishing in importance andpopulation, sending forth her burrowing sons to those places in theworld where silver and copper and gold lie hid. 

The coastguard captain was awaiting Stoke's arrival in the littledeserted square where the Penzance omnibus deposits its passengers. The two men shook hands with that subtle and silent fellowship whichdraws together seamen of all classes and all nations. They walkedaway together in the calm speechlessness of Englishmen throwntogether on matters of their daily business. 

"He doesn't pick up at all, " said the coastguard captain, at length. "Just sits mum all day. My wife looks after him, but she can't stirhim up. If anybody could, she could. " And the man walked on, looking straight in front of him with a patient eye. He spoke withunconscious feeling. "He is a gentleman, despite the clothes hecame ashore in. Getting across to the Southern States under acloud, as likely as not, " he said, presently. "Some bank manager, perhaps. He must have changed clothes with some forecastle hand. They were seaman's clothes, and he had been sleeping or hiding in aditch. "

He led the way to his house, standing apart in the well-kept gardenof the station. He opened the door of the simply furnished drawing-room. 

"Here is a friend come to see you, " he said; and, standing aside, heinvited Stoke by a silent gesture of the head to pass in. 

A man was sitting in front of the fire with his back towards thedoor. He did not move or turn his head. Stoke closed the doorbehind him as he entered the room, and went slowly towards thefireplace. Dixon turned and looked at him with shrinking eyes, likethe eyes of a dog that has been beaten. 

"Let us get out on to the cliffs, " he said in a whisper. "We cannottalk here. "

He was clean-shaven, and his hair was grizzled at the temples. Hisface looked oddly weak; for he had an irresolute chin, hithertohidden by his smart beard. Few would have recognized him. 

By way of reply Stoke went back towards the door. 

"Come on, then, " he said rather curtly. 

They did not speak until they had passed out beyond the town towardsthe bare tableland that leads to the sea. 

"Couldn't face it, Jack, that's the truth, " said the captain, atlast. "And if you or any others try to make me, I'll shoot myself. How many was it? Tell me quickly, man. "

"Over a hundred and ninety, " replied Stoke. 

They walked out on to the bare tableland and sat down on a crumblingwall. 

"And what do the papers say? I have not dared to ask for one. "

Stoke shrugged his square shoulders. 

"What does it matter what they say?" answered the man who had neverseen his own name in the newspapers. Perhaps he failed tounderstand Dixon's point of view. 

"Have you seen Mary?" asked the captain. 

"Yes. "

Then they sat in silence for some minutes. There was a heavy searunning, and the rocks round the Land's End were black in a bed ofpure white. The Longship's lighthouse stood up, a grey shadow in agrey scene. 

"Come, " said Stoke. "Be a man and face it. "

There was no answer, and the speaker sat staring across the lashedwaters to the west, his square chin thrust forward, his resolutelips pressed, his eyes impassive. There was obviously only onecourse through life for this seaman--the straight one. 

"If it is only for Mary's sake, " he added at length. 

"Keeping the Gull Lightship east-south-east, and having the SouthForeland west by north, you should find six fathoms of water at aneap tide, " muttered Captain Dixon, in a low monotone. His eyeswere fixed and far away. He was unconscious of his companion'spresence, and spoke like one talking in his dreams. 

Stoke sat motionless by him while he took his steamer in imaginationthrough the Downs and round the North Foreland. But what he saidwas mostly nonsense, and he mixed up the bearings of the inner andouter channels into a hopeless jumble. Then he sat huddled up onthe wall and lapsed again into a silent dream, with eyes fixed onthe western sea. Stoke took him by the arm and led him back to thetown, this harmless, soft-speaking creature who had once been abrilliant man, and had made but one mistake at sea. 

Stoke wrote a long letter to Mary Dixon that afternoon. He tooklodgings in a cottage outside St. Just, on the tableland thatoverlooks the sea. He told the captain of the coastguards that hehad been able to identify this man, and had written to his people inLondon. 

Dixon recognized her when she came, but he soon lapsed again intohis dreamy state of incoherence, and that which made him lose hisgrip on his reason was again the terror of having to face the worldas the captain of the lost Grandhaven. To humour him they left St. Just and went to London. They changed their name to that which Maryhad borne before her marriage, a French Canadian name, Baillere. Agreat London specialist held out a dim hope of ultimate recovery. 

"It was brought on by some great shock, " he suggested. 

"Yes, " said Stoke. "By a great shock. "

"A bereavement?"

"Yes, " answered Stoke, slowly. 

It is years since the loss of the Grandhaven, and her story was longago superseded and forgotten. And the London specialist was wrong. 

The Bailleres live now in the cottage westward of St. Just towardsthe sea, where Stoke took lodgings. It was the captain's wish toreturn to this remote spot. Whenever Captain Stoke is in England hespends his brief leave of absence in journeying to the forgottenmining town. Baillere passes his days in his garden or sitting onthe low wall, looking with vacant eyes across the sea whereon hisname was once a household word. His secret is still safe. Theworld still exonerates him because he was drowned. 

"He sits and dreams all day, " is the report that Mary always givesto Stoke when she meets him in the town square, where the Penzanceomnibus, the only link with the outer world, deposits its rarepassengers. 

"And you?" Stoke once asked her in a moment of unusual expansion, his deep voice half muffled with suppressed suspense. 

She glanced at him with that waiting look which he knows to bethere, but never meets. For he is a hard man--hard to her, harderto himself. 

"I, " she said, in a low voice, "I sit beside him. "

And who shall gauge a woman's dream?

PUTTING THINGS RIGHT

"Want Berlyng, " he seemed to be saying, though it was difficult tocatch the words, for we were almost within range, and the fight wasa sharp one. It was the old story of India frontier warfare; toosmall a force, and a foe foolishly underrated. 

The man they had just brought in--laying him hurriedly on a bed ofpine-needles, in the shade of the conifers where I had halted mylittle train--poor Charles Noon of the Sikhs, was done for. Hisright hand was off at the wrist, and the shoulder was almostsevered. 

I bent my ear to his lips, and heard the words which sounded like"Want Berlyng. "

We had a man called Berlyng in the force--a gunner--who was round atthe other side of the fort that was to be taken before night, twomiles away at least. 

"Do you want Berlyng?" I asked slowly and distinctly. 

Noon nodded, and his lips moved. I bent my head again till my earalmost touched his lips. 

"How long have I?" he was asking. 

"Not long, I'm afraid, old chap. "

His lips closed with a queer distressed look. He was sorry to die. 

"How long?" he asked again. 

"About an hour. "

But I knew it was less. I attended to others, thinking all thewhile of poor Noon. His home life was little known, but there wassome story about an engagement at Poonah the previous warm weather. Noon was rich, and he cared for the girl; but she did not return thefeeling. In fact, there was some one else. It appears that thegirl's people were ambitious and poor, and that Noon had promisedlarge settlements. At all events, the engagement was a knownaffair, and gossips whispered that Noon knew about the some oneelse, and would not give her up. He was, I know, thought badly ofby some, especially by the elders, who had found out the value ofmoney as regards happiness, or rather the complete absence of itsvalue. 

However, the end of it all lay on the sheet beneath the pines, andwatched me with such persistence that I was at last forced to go tohim. 

"Have you sent for Berlyng?" he asked, with a breathlessness which Iknow too well. 

Now I had not sent for Berlyng, and it requires more nerve than Ipossess to tell unnecessary lies to a dying man. The necessary onesare quite different, and I shall not think of them when I go to myaccount. 

"Berlyng could not come if I sent for him, " I replied soothingly. "He is two miles away from here trenching the North Wall, and I havenobody to send. The messenger would have to run the gauntlet of theenemy's earthworks. "

"I'll give the man a hundred pounds who does it, " replied Noon, inhis breathless whisper. "Berlyng will come sharp enough if you sayit's from me. He hates me too much. " He broke off with a laughwhich made me feel sick. "Could he get here in time, " he askedafter a pause, "if you sent for him?"

"Yes, " I replied, with my hand inside his soaked tunic. 

I found a wounded water-carrier--a fellow with a stray bullet in hishand--who volunteered to find Berlyng, and then I returned to Noonand told him what I had done. I knew that Berlyng could not come. 

He nodded, and I think he said, "God bless you. "

"I want to put something right, " he said, after an effort; "I'vebeen a blackguard. "

I waited a little in case Noon wished to repose some confidence inme. Things are so seldom put right that it is wise to facilitatesuch intentions. But it appeared obvious that what Noon had to saycould only be said to Berlyng. They had, it subsequentlytranspired, not been on speaking terms for some months. 

I was turning away when Noon suddenly cried out in his naturalvoice, "There IS Berlyng. "

I turned and saw one of my men, Swearney, carrying in a gunner. Itmight be Berlyng, for the uniform was that of a captain, but I couldnot see his face. Noon, however, seemed to recognize him. 

I showed Swearney where to lay his man, close to me alongside Noon, who at that moment required all my attention, for he had fainted. 

In a moment Noon recovered, despite the heat, which was tremendous. He lay quite still looking up at the patches of blue sky between thedark motionless tops of the pine trees. His face was livid underthe sunburn, and as I wiped the perspiration from his forehead heclosed his eyes with the abandon of a child. Some men, I havefound, die like children going to sleep. 

He slowly recovered, and I gave him a few drops of brandy. Ithought he was dying, and decided to let Berlyng wait. I did noteven glance at him as he lay, covered with dust and blackened by thesmoke of his beloved nine-pounders, a little to the left of Noon, and behind me as I knelt at the latter's side. 

After a while his eyes grew brighter, and he began to look abouthim. He turned his head, painfully, for the muscles of his neckwere injured, and caught sight of the gunner's uniform. 

"Is that Berlyng?" he asked excitedly. 

"Yes. "

He dragged himself up and tried to get nearer to Berlyng. And Ihelped him. They were close alongside each other. Berlyng waslying on his back, staring up at the blue patches between the pinetrees. 

Noon turned on his left elbow and began whispering into the smoke-grimed ear. 

"Berlyng, " I heard him say, "I was a blackguard. I am sorry, oldman. I played it very low down. It was a dirty trick. It was mymoney--and her people were anxious for her to marry a rich man. Iworked it through her people. I wanted her so badly that I forgotI--was supposed--to be a--gentleman. I found out--that it was you--she cared for. But I couldn't make up my mind to give her up. Ikept her--to her word. And now it's all up with me--but you'll pullthrough and it will all--come right. Give her my--love--old chap. You can now--because I'm--done. I'm glad they brought you in--because I've been able--to tell you--that it is you she cares for. You--Berlyng, old chap, who used to be a chum of mine. She caresfor you--God! you're in luck! I don't know whether she's told you--but she told me--and I was--a d---d blackguard. "

His jaw suddenly dropped, and he rolled forward with his faceagainst Berlyng's shoulder. 

Berlyng was dead when they brought him in. He had heard nothing. Or perhaps he had heard and understood--everything. 

FOR JUANITA'S SAKE

Cartoner, of the Foreign Office, who is still biding his time, isnot tired of Spain yet--and it must be remembered that Cartonerknows the Peninsula. He began to know it twenty years ago, and hisknowledge is worthy of the name, inasmuch as it moves with thetimes. Some day there will be a war in Spain, and we shall fighteither for or against the Don, which exercise Englishmen havealready enjoyed more than once. Cartoner hopes that it may come inhis time, when, as he himself puts it, he will be "there orthereabouts. " Had not a clever man his opportunity when the Russianwar broke out, and he alone of educated Britons knew the Crimea?That clever man had a queer temper, as we all know, and so lost hisopportunity; but, if he gets it, Cartoner will take his chancecoolly and steadily enough. In the mean time he is, if one mayagain borrow his own terse expression, "by no means nowhere, " for inthe Foreign Office those who know Spain are a small handful; andthose who, like Cartoner, can cross the Pyrenees and submergethemselves unheeded in the quiet, sleepy life of Andalusia, are tobe numbered on two fingers, and no more. When a question of Spainor of, say, Cuba, arises, a bell is rung in the high places of theForeign Office, and a messenger in livery is despatched forCartoner, who, as likely as not, will be discovered reading ElImparcial in his room. It is always pleasant to be able to ring abell and summon a man who knows the difference between Andalusia andCatalonia--and can without a moment's hesitation say where Cuba isand to what Power it belongs, such matters not always being quiteclear to the comprehension of a Cabinet Minister who has beenbrought up to the exclusive knowledge of the Law, or the manufactureof some article of daily domestic consumption. 

While possessing his knowledge in patience, Cartoner naturally takesa mean advantage of those in high places who have it not, nor yetthe shadow of it. About once in six months he says that he thinkshe ought to go to Spain, and raps out a few technicalities relatingto the politics of the Peninsula. A couple of days later he setsoff for the land of sun and sleep with what he calls his Spanish kitin a portmanteau. This he purchased in the "Sierpe" for fortypesetas at a ready-made tailor's, where it was labelled "Fantasia. "It is merely a tweed suit, but, wearing it, Cartoner is safe fromthe reproach that doggeth the step of the British tourist abroad. 

It was during one of these expeditions that Cartoner, in hisunobtrusive way, found himself in Toledo, where, the guide-bookstell us, the traveller will obtain no fit accommodation. It wasevening, and the company who patronized the Cafe of the New Gatewere mostly assembled at small tables in the garden of that house ofentertainment. The moon was rising over the lower lands across theTagus, behind the gate which gives its name to this cafe. It isvery rightly called the New Gate. Did not Wemba build it in thesixth century, as he has cheerfully written upon its topmost stone?

Cartoner sat at one of the outside tables, where the hydrangeas, aslarge as a black currant bush, are ranged in square green boxesagainst the city wall. He was thoughtfully sipping his coffee whena man crawled between his legs and hid himself like a sick dogbetween Cartoner's chair and the hydrangea trees. The hiding-placewas a good one, provided that the fugitive had the collusion ofwhosoever sat in Cartoner's chair. 

"His Excellency would not betray a poor unfortunate, " whispered aneager voice at Cartoner's elbow, while, with a sang-froid which hadbeen partly acquired south of the Pyrenees, the Briton sat and gazedacross the Tagus. 

"That depends upon what the unfortunate has been after. "

There was a silence while Truth wrestled with the Foe in the shadowsof the bush in the green box. 

"His Excellency is not of Toledo. "

"Nor yet of Spain, " replied Cartoner, knowing that it is good tospeak the truth at times. 

"They have chased me from Algodor. They on horseback, I runningthrough the forest. You will hear them rattling across the bridgesoon. If I can only lie hidden here until they have ridden on intothe town, I can double and get away to Barcelona. "

Cartoner was leaning forward on the little tin table, his chin inthe palm of his hand. 

"You must not speak too loud, " he said, "especially when the musicis still. "

For the Cafe of the New Gate had the additional attraction of whatthe proprietor called a concert. The same consisting of a guitarand a bright-coloured violin, the latter in the hands of a wanderingscoundrel, who must have had good in him somewhere--it peeped out inthe lower notes. 

"Has his Excellency had coffee?" inquired the man behind Cartoner'schair. 

"Yes. "

"Does any sugar remain? I have not eaten since morning. "

Cartoner dropped the two square pieces of sugar over his shoulder, and there was a sound of grinding. 

"His Excellency will not give me up. I can slip a knife into hisExcellency's liver where I sit. "

"I know that. What have you been doing?"

"I killed Emmanuelo Dembaza, that is all. "

"Indeed--but why kill Senor Dembaza?"

"I did it for Juanita's sake. "

A queer smile flitted across Cartoner's face. He was a philosopherin his way, and knew that such things must be. 

"He was a scoundrel, and had already ruined one poor girl, " went onthe voice from the tree. The cheap violin was speaking about goodand bad mixed together again--and to talk aloud was safe. "But shewas no better than she should be--a tobacco-worker. And tobacco forwork or pleasure ever ruins a woman, Senor. Look at Seville. ButJuanita is different. She irons the fine linen. She is good--asgood as his Excellency's mother--and beautiful. Maria! HisExcellency should see her eyes. You know what eyes some Spanishwomen have. A history and something one does not understand. "

"Yes, " answered Cartoner again. "I know. "

"Juanita thought she liked him, " went on the voice, bringing itshearer suddenly back to Toledo; "she thought she liked him until shefound him out. Then he turned upon her and said things that werenot true. Such things, Senor, ruin a girl, whether they be true ornot--especially if the women begin to talk. Is it not so?"

"Yes. "

"She told me of it, and we decided that there was nothing to do butkill Emmanuelo Dembaza. She kissed me, Excellency, and every timeshe did that I would kill a man if she asked me. "

"Indeed. "

"Yes, Excellency. "

"And if you are taken and sent to prison for, say, twenty years?"suggested Cartoner. 

"Then Juanita will drown herself. She has sworn it. "

"And if I do not give you up? If you escape?"

"She will follow me to Argentina, Excellency; and, Madre de Dios, weshall get married. "

At this moment the waiter came up, cigarette in mouth, after themanner of Spain, and suggested a second cup of coffee, to whichCartoner assented--with plenty of sugar. 

"Have you money?" asked Cartoner, when they were alone again. 

"No, Senor. "

"In this world it is no use being a criminal unless you are rich. If you are poor you must be honest. That is the first rule of thegame. "

"I am as poor as a street-dog, " said the voice, unconcernedly. 

"And you would not take a loan as from one gentleman to another?"

"No, " answered Spanish pride, crouching in the bushes, "I could notdo that. "

Cartoner reflected for some moments. "In the country from which Icome, " he said at length, "we have a very laudable reverence forrelics and a very delicate taste in such matters. If one man shootsanother we like to see the gun, and we pay sixty centimes to lookupon it. There are people who make an honest living by suchexhibitions. If they cannot get the gun they put another in itsplace, and it is all the same. Now, your knife--the one theSenorita sharpens with a kiss--in my country it will have its value. Suppose I buy it; suppose we say five hundred pesetas?"

And Cartoner's voice was the voice of innocence. 

There was silence for some time, and at last the knife came uphandlewise between the leaves of the hydrangea. Spanish pride isalways ready to shut its eyes. 

"But you must swear that what you tell me is true and that Juanitawill join you in Argentina. Honour of a gentleman. "

"Honour of a gentleman, " repeated the voice; and the hand of ablacksmith came through the leaves, seeking Cartoner's grasp. 

"They are turning the lights out, " said Cartoner, when the bargainwas concluded. "But I will wait until it is safe to leave you here. Your friends the guardia civile do not arrive. "

"Pardon, Senor, I think I hear them. "

And the fugitive's ears did not err. For presently a tall man, white with dust in his great swinging cloak, stalked suspiciouslyamong the tables, looking into each face. He saluted Cartoner, whowas better dressed than the other frequenters of the Cafe of the NewGate, and passed on. A horrid moment. 

"The good God will most likely remember that you have done this deedto-night, " said the voice, with a queer break in it. 

"He may, " answered Cartoner, who was lighting his cigarette beforegoing. "On the other hand, I may get five years in a Spanishprison. "

AT THE FRONT

 "Some one who is not girlish now"

It was only yesterday that I saw her. It happened that the stringof carriages was stopped at that moment, and I went to the door ofher comfortable-looking barouche. 

"Do you ever feel that shoulder, " I asked, raising my hat, "at thechanges of the weather, or when it is damp?"

She turned and looked at me in surprise. Her face had alteredlittle. It was the face of a happy woman, despite a few lines, which were not the marks left by a life of gaiety and dissipation. They were not quite the lines that Time had drawn on the faces ofthe women in the carriages around her. In some ways she lookedyounger than most of them, and her eyes had an expression which waslacking in the gas-wearied orbs of her fashionable sisters. It wasthe shadowy reflection of things seen. 

She looked into my face--noting the wear and tear that life had leftthere. Then suddenly she smiled and held out her hand. 

"You!" she said. "You--how strange!"

She blushed suddenly and laughed with a pretty air of embarrassmentwhich was startlingly youthful. 

"No, " she went on, in answer to my question; "I never feel thatshoulder now--thanks to you. "

There were a number of questions I wanted to ask her. But I hadfallen into a habit, years ago, of restraining that inexpedientdesire; and she did not seem to expect interrogation. Besides, Icould see many answers in her face. 

"You limped just now, " she said, leaning towards me with a littlegrave air of sympathy which was quite familiar to me--like an oldfriend forgotten until seen again. "You limped as you crossed theroad. "

"I shall limp until the end of the chapter. "

"And you have been at that work ever since?"

"Yes. "

She looked past me over the trees of the Park--as if looking backinto a bygone period of her life. 

"Will you come and dine to-morrow night?" she said suddenly. "Fredwill be. . . Very pleased to see you. And--I want to show you thechildren. "

The line of carriages moved on slowly towards the Park gate, andleft me baring a grizzled old bullet-head in answer to her smile andnod. 

As I limped along it all came back to me. A good many years before--in the days when hard work was the salt of life--I was entrustedwith my first field hospital. I was sent up to the front by thecleverest surgeon and the poorest organizer that ever served theQueen. 

Ah, that WAS a field hospital! My first! We were within earshot ofthe front--that is to say, we could hear the platoon firing. Andwhen the wounded came in we thought only of patching them uptemporarily--sewing, bandaging, and plastering them into travellingorder, and sending them down to the headquarters at the coast. Itwas a weary journey across the desert, and I am afraid a few wereburied on the way. 

Early one morning, I remember, they brought in Boulson, and I saw atonce that he had come to stay. We could not patch him up and sendhim off. The jolting of the ambulance waggon had done its work, andBoulson was insensible when they laid him on one of the field-cots. He remained insensible while I got his things off. The wound toldits own story. He had been at the hand-to-hand work again, and abayonet never meets a broad-headed spear without trouble coming ofit. Boulson meant to get on--consequently I had had him before. Ihad cut his shirt off him before this, and knew that it was marked"F. L. G. M. , " which does not stand for Boulson. 

Boulson's name was not Boulson; but that was not our business at thetime. We who patch up Thomas Atkins when he gets hurt in theinterests of his Queen and country are never surprised to find thatthe initials on his underlinen do not tally with those in theregimental books. When the military millennium arrives, andambulance services are perfect, we shall report things more fully. Something after this style--"Killed: William Jones. Coronet on hisrazor-case. Linen marked A. De M. F. G. "

While I was busy with a sponge, Boulson opened his eyes andrecognized me. 

"Soon got YOU back again, " I remarked, with ghastly professionalcheeriness. 

He smiled feebly. "Must get into the despatches somehow, " heanswered, and promptly fainted again. 

I took especial care of Boulson, being mindful of a letter I hadreceived while he was recovering from his last wound. It was a longand rambling letter, dated from a place on the west coast ofIreland. It was signed with a name which surprised me, and thewriter, who addressed me as "Sir, " and mentioned that he was myhumble servant, stated that he was Boulson's father. At least hesaid he thought he was Boulson's father--if Boulson was tall andfair, with blue eyes, and a pepper-castor mark on his right arm, where a charge of dust-shot had lodged from a horse-pistol. Therehad, he informed me, been family misunderstandings about a foolishfancy formed by Boulson for a military career. And Boulson had goneoff--God bless him--like the high-spirited Irishman that he was--toenlist as a private soldier. And then came the news of the seriouswound, and if there was a God in heaven (which I never doubted), anykindness and care that I could bestow upon Boulson would not beforgotten at the last reckoning. And more to a like effect. 

Moreover, Boulson pulled through and was duly sent down to the fine, roomy convalescent hospital on the coast, where they have ice, andnewspapers, and female nurses fresh from Netley. 

This second wound was, however, a more serious affair. While otherscame and went, Boulson seemed inclined to stay for ever. At allevents he stayed for ten days, and made no progress worthmentioning. 

At the end of that time I was sitting at my table writingperversions of God's truth to the old gentleman on the west coast ofIreland when I heard the rumble of ambulance waggons. I thoughtthat it was only a returned empty--there having been an informalfuneral that evening--so hardly disturbed myself. 

Presently, however, some one came and stood in front of my tableoutside the tent. I looked up, and looked into the face of one ofthe few women I have met who make me believe in love stories. 

"Halloa!" I said, somewhat rudely. 

"I beg to report myself, " she answered quietly. There was apeculiar unsteadiness in her eyes. It seemed to me that this womanwas labouring under great excitement. 

"Did the Surgeon-Major send you?" I asked. 

"I volunteered. "

"Hum! I think I ought to have been asked first. This is no placefor women. "

"Wherever there is nursing to be done, we can hardly be out ofplace, " she answered, with a determination which puzzled me. 

"Theoretically, " I answered; and, seeing that she had arrived, Imade a shift to find her suitable quarters and get her to work. 

"Have you any serious cases?" she asked, while unpacking and settingout for my inspection sundry stores she had brought. 

"I have Boulson again, " I answered. "The man you had in thespring. "

She buried her head in the case, and did not answer for someseconds. 

When at length she did speak, her voice was indifferent andcareless. 

"Badly hurt?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

She finished unpacking her stores rather hurriedly, and expressedher readiness to go round the cots with me. 

"Are you not too tired after your journey?"

"No, I--I should like to begin at once. Please let me. "

I took her round, and altogether I was pleased with her. 

In a day or two I almost became resigned to her presence, though Ihate having women anywhere near the action. It is always better toget the nasty cases cleaned up before the women see them. 

Then suddenly came bad news. There was something wrong at thefront. Our fellows were falling back upon us. A final stand was tobe made at our position until reinforcements came up. 

I sent for Nurse Fielding, and told her to get ready to leave forheadquarters at once. I was extremely business-like and formal. She was neither. That is the worst of women. 

"Please let me stay, " she said. "Please. "

I shook my head. 

"I would rather stay and be killed than go away and be safe. "

That aroused my suspicions. Perhaps they ought to have been arousedbefore; but, then, I am only a man. I saw how the Surgeon-Major hadbeen managed. 

"Please, " she repeated softly. 

She laid her hand on my arm, and did not withdraw it when she foundthat the sleeve was wet with something that was thicker than water. 

"Please, " she whispered. 

"Oh, all right--stay!"

I was sorry for it the next day, when we had the old familiar musicof the bullets overhead. 

Later in the morning matters became more serious. The enemy had agun with which they dropped six-pound shot into us. One of thesefell on to the corner of our hospital where Boulson lay. It torethe canvas, and almost closed Boulson's career. 

Nurse Fielding was at him like a terrier, and lifted him bodily fromhis cot. She was one of those largely framed fair women who havestrength, both physical and mental. 

She was carrying him across the tent when I heard the thud of abullet. Nurse Fielding stopped for a moment and seemed to hesitate. She laid Boulson tenderly down on the ground, and then fell acrosshim, while the blood ran from her cotton bodice over his face andneck. 

And that was what I meant when I asked the lady in the barouche atthe Park gate whether she ever felt that shoulder now. And the manI dine with to-night is not called Boulson, but he has a charge ofdust-shot--the result of a boyish experiment--in his right arm. 

THE END OF THE "MOOROO"

"How long can you give us?"

The man who asked this question turned his head and looked upthrough a maze of bright machinery. But he did not rise from hisrecumbent position. He was, in fact, lying on his face on a steel-bar grating--in his shirt-sleeves--his hands black with oil andsteel filings. 

The captain of the Mooroo--far up above on the upper platform--leanthis elbow on the steel banister and reflected for exactly twoseconds. He was in the habit of sleeping and thinking very quickly. 

"I reckon that we will be on the rocks in about twenty minutes tohalf an hour--unless you can get her going. "

The chief engineer muttered something which was not audible abovethe roar of the wind through the rigging and the wash of the greenseas that leapt over the bulwarks of the well-deck. 

"What?" yelled the captain, leaning over the balustrade. 

"D---n it, " reiterated the chief, with his head hidden. 

They were all down there--the whole engineer's staff of the Mooroo--in their shirt-sleeves, lying among the bright steel rods--busy attheir craft--working against time for their lives. 

It was unfortunate that the engines should have held good rightacross the Arabian Sea, through the Red Sea, through the trying"fast" and "slow" and "stand by" and "go ahead" of the Canal--rightthrough to the Pointe de Raz light, which was blinking down uponthem now. 

The ship had been got round with difficulty. Her sails, all blackwith coal-dust and the smoke of many voyages, had been shaken out. They served to keep the vessel's bluff prow pushing into the gale, but that was all. The Mooroo was drifting--drifting. 

While the passengers were at dinner the engines had suddenlystopped, and almost before the fact had been realized, the captain, having exchanged glances with his officers, was out of the saloon. 

"Something in the engine-room, " said the doctor and the fifthofficer--left at table. The engineer had probably stopped toreplace a worn washer or something similarly simple. 

The stewards hurried to and fro with the dishes. And the passengerswent on eating their last dinner on earth in that sublime ignorancewhich is the prerogative of passengers. 

Mrs. Judge Barrowby, who, in view of the captain's vacant chair onher left hand, took, as it were, moral command of the ship, washeard to state in a loud voice that she had every confidence in theofficers and the crew. 

Young Skeen, of the Indian Intelligence, who sat within hearing ofMrs. Judge Barrowby, for his own evil ends and purposes, thereaftersaid that he could now proceed with his dinner--that his appetitewas beginning to return. 

"Of course, " he went on to say, "if Mrs. Judge Barrowby says that itis all right--"

But he got no farther than this. For a young lady with demure eyesand twitching lips, who was sitting next to him, whispered that Mrs. Judge Barrowby was looking, and that he must behave himself. 

"I have every confidence in Mrs. Judge Barrowby, " he, nevertheless, managed to assure a grave-looking man across the table. 

The truth was that Mrs. Judge Barrowby had had her eye on these twoyoung people all the voyage. There was no reason that they shouldnot fall in love with each other, and marry and be happy everafterwards; but Mrs Judge Barrowby felt that it was incumbent uponthem to ask her first, or at all events to keep her posted as to theprogress of matters, so that she might have the satisfaction ofknowing more than her neighbours. But the young people simplyignored her. 

Lady Crafer, the mother of the girl with the demure eyes, was afoolish woman, who passed most of her days in her cabin; and Mrs. Judge Barrowby felt, and went so far as to say to more than oneperson, that the least that a nice-minded girl could, under thecircumstances, do was to place herself under the protection of someexperienced lady--possibly herself. From the fact that EvelynCrafer had failed to do this, Mrs. Judge Barrowby intimated thateach might draw an individual inference. 

While these thoughts were in course of lithography upon theexpressive countenance of the lady at the captain's end of thesaloon table, strange things were taking place on the deck of thegood steamship Mooroo. The entire crew had, in fact, been summonedon deck. The boats were being pushed out--the davits swung round, the tarpaulin covers removed, and the awnings unbent. Life-beltswere being collected in the music-room on deck, and the purser hadgiven orders to the stewards to prolong dinner as much as possible. 

"Let 'em have their dinner first, " the captain had saidsignificantly. 

And all the while the Mooroo was drifting. 

Immediately over the stern rail a light came and went at regularintervals on the horizon, while to eastward, at a higher elevation, a great, yellow staring eye looked out into the night. This was thelight on the westernmost point of Europe--the Pointe de Raz. Thesmaller beacon, low down on the horizon, was that of the Ile deSein, whose few inhabitants live by what the sea brings them in--beit fish or wreckage. There is enough of both. A strong currentsets north and east, and it becomes almost a "race" in the narrowchannel between the Ile de Sein and the rock-bound mainland. TheMooroo was in this current. 

The captain had said no more than the truth. There are times whennature is too strong for the strongest man and the keenest brain. There was simply nothing to be done but to try and get the repaircompleted in time--and on deck to send up rockets, and--to preparefor the worst. This the captain had done--even to unlacing his ownboots. The latter is always a bad sign. When the captain thinks ofhis own boots it is time for others to try and remember the few gooddeeds they may have done. 

In ten minutes the passengers knew; for the captain went and toldthem--before they had their dessert. The result was confusion, anda rush for the saloon stairs. The boats were already lowered andalongside the gangway steps in a terrible sea. 

The old ladies did wonderfully well, considering their age and otherthings. Mrs. Judge Barrowby was heard to say that she would nevertravel by anything but P. And O. In future, and that it was all herhusband's fault. But she was third on the stairs, and in time toselect the roomiest life-belt. Lady Crafer was a great believer instewards. She clung to one, and, calling upon Evelyn to follow her, made very good practice down the saloon. 

There was no doubt whatever about young Skeen of the IndianIntelligence. He simply took charge of Evelyn Crafer. He tookpossession of her and told her what to do. He even found time tolaugh at Mrs. Judge Barrowby's ankles as she leapt over a pile ofdirty plates. 

"Stay here, " he cried to Evelyn. "It is useless going with thatrabble. Our only chance is to stay. "

She obeyed him. Women sometimes do it still. They stood in thegaily lighted saloon, and witnessed the rush for the deck--ahumiliating sight. 

When at length the stairs were clear, Skeen turned and looked intoher face. Then suddenly he took her in his arms and kissed her. They had been drifting towards this for some weeks past. Circumstances had hurried it on. That was all. 

"Dear, " he said, "will you stay here while I go on deck and see whatchances there are? If you once get up there in the dark and theconfusion, I shall lose you. "

"Yes, " she answered; and as she spoke there was a great crash, whichthrew her into his arms a second time, and made a clean sweep of thetables. They stood literally ankle-deep in wine-glasses, dessert, and plates. The Mooroo had taken the rocks. There was a rollingcrash on the deck overhead, and a confused sound of shouting. 

"You will stay?" cried Skeen again. 

"Yes--dear. "

He turned and left her there, alone. 

On deck he found a crowd. The passengers were being allowed to goto the boats. Taking into consideration the darkness, the roaringsea, and the hopelessness of it all, the organization was wonderful. The children were going first. A quarter-master stood at the headof the gangway steps and held the people in check. When Skeenarrived, Mrs. Judge Barrowby was giving this man a piece of what shewas pleased to call her mind. 

"Man, " she was saying, "let me pass! You do not know who I am. Iam the wife of Judge Barrowby. "

"Marm, you may be the wife of the harkangel Gabriel as far as Iknows; but I've my orders. Stand aside please. Any more babies inarms?" he cried. 

But Mrs. Judge Barrowby knew the value of a good useful life, andpersistently blocked up the gangway. 

"One woman is as good as another, " she said. 

"Ay, except the mothers, and they're better, " said the man, pushingher aside to let a lady and her child pass. 

"THAT woman!" cried Mrs. Judge Barrowby. "A woman who has been thetalk of the whole ship--before ME--a flirting grass widow!"

"Gawd knows, " said the man, holding her back. "It's little enoughto fight about. "

"I will report you, man. "

"Yes, marm, to the good God, and I ain't afraid o' HIM! NOW you maygo!"

And, fuming, Mrs. Judge Barrowby went down to her death. Not oneboat could reach the shore through such a surf, as captain and crewwell knew; but there are certain formalities vis-a-vis to humanlives which must be observed by ship-captains and doctors andothers. 

Skeen ran to the other side. Lights were twinkling through thespray; the land was not two hundred yards off, but it was twohundred yards of rock and surf. There was only one chance. 

Skeen kicked off his boots and ran back to the saloon. It was all amatter of seconds. For a few moments the brilliant lights dazzledhim, and he looked round wildly for Evelyn Crafer. A great fearseized his heart as in a grip of cold iron--but only for a moment. He saw her. She was kneeling by the table, unaware of his presence. 

"Oh God, " she was praying aloud, "save him--save HIM from thisdanger!"

He heard the words as he stopped to lift her like a child from herknees--bringing her back from God to man. 

And the end of the Mooroo was a girl sitting before a driftwood firein the cottage of the old cure of the Ile de Sein, while at her feetknelt a man with his broken arm bound to his side. And he wasstroking her hands softly and repeatedly. He was trying to sootheher and make her understand that she was safe. 

"Give her time, my son, " the old cure said, with his deep, wisesmile. "She only requires time. I have seen them before taken fromthe sea like her. They all require time. It is in our nature torecover from all things--in time. "

IN A CARAVAN

 "Which means, I think, that go or stay Affects you nothing, either way. "

"And that is where Parker sleeps. "

We craned our necks, and, stooping low, saw beneath the vehicle aparasitic square box like a huge barnacle fixed to the bottom of thevan. A box about four feet by two. The door of it was open, andParker's bedfellows--two iron buckets and a sack of potatoes--stoodconfessed. 

"Oh yes--very nice, " we murmured. 

"Oh, it's awfully jolly!" said the host-in-himself. 

We looked at Parker, who was peeling potatoes on the off-shaft--Parker, six feet two, with a soldier's bearing--and we drifted offinto thought. 

"And who drives?" we asked, with an intelligent interest. 

"Oh, Parker. And we do all the rest, you know. "

It was seven o'clock in the evening when we joined the caravan, in astackyard on the outskirts of an Eastern county town. 

"That's 'im--that's Lord George Sanger, " was said of the writer byone of the crowd of small boys assembled at the stackyard gate. Atravelling menagerie and circus was advertised in a somewhat"voyant" manner on the town walls, and a fancied resemblance to thearistocratic manager thereof accredited us with an honourableconnection in the enterprise. 

"When do you open?" inquired an intelligent spectator, anxious toshow savoir faire. 

"See small handbills, " replied the host-in-himself, with equalcourtesy. 

"'Oo are yer, at any rate?" inquired an enlightened voter. 

"Who are YOU?" we replied with spirit; and, passing through thegate, we closed it to keep out the draught. Then we paid adomiciliary visit, and were duly shown Parker's apartments. 

In outward appearance the caravan suggested an overgrown bathing-machine. The interior resembled the cabin of a yacht. The wallswere gaily decorated with painting on the panels; flowers bloomed invases fixed upon the wall; two prettily curtained windows--one abay, the other flat--gave a view of the surrounding country. At theforward end, against the bulkhead, so to speak, was a small butenterprising chest of drawers, and above it a large looking-glasswhich folded down, developed legs, and owned to the soft impeachmentof being a bed. Beneath the starboard window a low and capacioussofa, combining the capacity of a locker. Under the port window wasfixed a table against the bulkhead, where four people could and diddine sumptuously. When en voyage and between meals, charts, maps, and literature littered this table pleasantly. A ship's clock hungover it, and a corner cupboard did its duty in the port quarter. Aheavy plush curtain closed off the kitchen and pantry, which wereroomy and of marvellous capacity. Then the back door--in halves--and the back step, brassbound, treacherous. 

In front there was a little verandah with supporting columns ofbamboo. Here we usually sat when travelling--Parker in the right-hand corner handling the ribbons of the tandem cart-horses withskill and discretion. 

As dinner was not ready, we proceeded to pitch the small tentwherein the two men were to sleep. It was a singular tent, with avast number of pendent ropes which became entangled at the outset. We began with zeal, but presently left the ropes and turned ourattention to the pegs. These required driving in with a woodenmallet and a correct eye. Persons unaccustomed to such work strikethe peg on one side--the mallet goes off at a tangent and strikesthe striker with force upon the shin-bone. 

Finally Parker said he would put up the tent "by'n-by. "

There was a Bedlington terrier--Parker's dog--attached (literally)to the caravan. He was tied to one of the bamboo columns on theforecastle, and when Parker absented himself for long he usuallyleaped off the platform and sought death by strangulation--this wediscovered later. When we abandoned the tent we thought we wouldcheer up the dog. 

"Don't touch him, sir; he'll bite you, " said Parker. 

Of course we touched him; no man who respects himself at all isready to admit that a dog bites HIM. It was wonderful how that dogand Parker understood each other. But the bite was not serious. 

At last dinner was ready, and we are prepared to take any horridoath required that no professional cook could set before a kingpotatoes more mealy. This only, of all the items in the menu, ismentioned, because where potatoes are good the experienced know thatother things will never be amiss. 

We waited on ourselves, and placed the dirty dishes, plates, andforks upon the back step, where Parker replaced them in a fewminutes, clean. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the hostess-in-herself, about 10 p. M. , when we weresmoking the beatific pipe, "by the way--Parker's dinner!"

In response to united shouts Parker appeared, and learned withapparent surprise that he had omitted to dine. He looked pale andworn, and told us that he had been blowing out the air-beds. Ateleven o'clock we two men left the ladies and went out into the coldmoonlight, where our tent looked remarkably picturesque. Of coursewe fell over a tent-peg each, and the host lost his watchkey. Parker came forward--dining--to explain where the ropes were, andfell over one himself, losing a piece of cold boiled beef in thegrass. We hunted for it with a lucifer match. Its value wasenhanced by the knowledge that when the bed was shut down and haddeveloped its legs the larder was inaccessible. After some timeParker discovered that the dog had been let loose and had found thebeef some moments before. He explained that it was a singular dogand preferred to live by dishonesty. Unstolen victuals had for himno zest. He added that the loss was of no consequence, as he neverhad been very keen on that piece of beef. We finally retired intothe tent, and left Parker still at work completing several contractshe had undertaken to carry through "by'n-by. " He said he preferreddoing them overnight, as it was no good getting up BEFORE five onthese dark autumnal mornings. 

As an interior the tent was a decided success. We went inside andhooked the flap laboriously from top to bottom. Then we rememberedthat the host's pyjamas were outside. He undid two hooks only andattempted to effect a sortie through the resultant interstice. Hestuck. The position was undignified, and conducive to weak andfutile laughter. At last Parker had to leave the washing-up of thesaucepans to come to the rescue, while the dog barked and imaginedthat he was attending a burglary. 

It was nearly midnight before we made our first acquaintance with anair-bed, and it took us until seven o'clock the next morning to geton to speaking terms with it. The air-bed, like the Bedlingtonterrier, must be approached with caution. Its manner is, to say theleast of it, repellent. Unless the sleeper (save the mark!) liesgeometrically in the centre, the air rushes to one side, and theignorant roll off the other. If there were no bedclothes one couldturn round easily, but the least movement throws the untuckedblanket incontinently into space, while the instability of the bedprecludes tucking in. Except for these and a few other drawbacks, the air-bed may safely be recommended. 

The next morning showed a white frost on the grass, and washing inthe open, in water that had stood all night in a bucket, was, to saythe least of it, invigorating. Parker browned our boots, put aspecial edge of his own upon our razors, attended to the horses, oiled the wheels, fetched the milk, filled the lamps of the paraffinstove, bought a gallon of oil, and carried a can of water from aneighbouring farm before breakfast, just by way--he explained--ofgetting ready to start his day's work. 

An early start had been projected, but owing to the fact that afterbreakfast Parker had to beat the carpet, wash the dishes, plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks, and his own face, strike thetent, let the air out of the air-beds, roll up the waterproofsheets, clean the saucepans, groom the horses, ship the shafts, sendoff a parcel from the station, buy two loaves of bread, and thankthe owner of the stackyard--owing, I say, to the fact that Parkerhad these things to accomplish while we "did the rest, " it waseleven o'clock before all hands were summoned to get "her" out ofthe narrow gateway. This was safely accomplished, by Parker, whilewe walked round, looked knowingly at the wheels, sternly at thegate-posts, and covertly at the spectators. 

Then we clambered up, the host-in-himself cracked the whip, Parkergathered up his reins. 

"Come up, Squire! Come up, Nancy!"

And the joy of the caravaneer was ours. 

This joy is not like the joy of other men. For the high-road, thehedgerows, the birds, the changing sky, the ever-varying landscape, belong to the caravaneer. He sits in his moving home and issaturated with the freedom of the gipsy without the haunting memoryof the police, which sits like Care on the roof of the gipsy van. Book on lap, he luxuriates on the forecastle when the sun shines andthe breeze blows soft, noting idly the passing beauty of the scene, returning peaceably to the printed page. When rain comes, as itsometimes does in an English summer, he goes inside and gives adeeper attention to the book, while Parker drives and gets wet. Getting wet is one of Parker's duties. And through rain andsunshine he moves on ever, through the peaceful and never dull--theincomparable beauty of an English pastoral land. The journey isaccomplished without fatigue, without anxiety; for the end of it canonly be the quiet corner of a moor, or some sleepy meadow. Speed isof no account--distance immaterial. The caravaneer looks down withindifference upon the dense curiosity of the smaller towns; thelarger cities he wisely avoids. 

The writer occupied the humble post of brakesman--elected thereto inall humility by an overpowering majority. The duties are heavy, theglory small. A clumsy vehicle like a caravan can hardly venturedown the slightest incline without a skid under the wheel and achain round the spoke. This necessitates the frequent handling of aheavy piece of iron, which is black and greasy at the top of a hill, and red-hot at the bottom. 

A steep hill through the town dispelled the Lord George Sangerillusion at one fell blow, the rustic-urban mind being incapable ofconceiving that that self-named nobleman could demean himself to thelaying of the skid. 

Of the days that followed there remains the memory of pleasant sunnydays and cool evenings, of the partridge plucked and cleaned by theroadside, fried deliciously over the paraffin flame, amidst freshbutter and mushrooms with the dew still on them. We look back withpleasure to the quiet camp in a gravel-pit on a hill-top far fromthe haunts of men--to the pitching of the tent by moonlight in ameadow where the mushrooms gleamed like snow, to be duly gatheredfor the frying-pan next morning by the host-in-himself, and inpyjamas. Nor are the sterner sides of caravan life to be forgotten--the calamity at the brow of a steep hill, where a nasty turn madethe steady old wheeler for once lose his head and his legs; thehard-fought battle over a half-side of bacon between the Bedlingtonterrier and the writer when that mistaken dog showed a markedpreference for the stolen Wiltshire over the partridge bone ofcharity. 

And there are pleasant recollections of friends made, and, alas!lost so soon; of the merry evening in a country house, of which thehospitable host, in his capacity of justice of the peace, gave usshort shrift in the choice between the county gaol and hishospitality. Unless we consented to sleep beneath his roof and eathis salt, he vowed he would commit us for vagabonds without visiblemeans of support. We chose the humiliation of a good dinner and asheeted bed. The same open-handed squire hung partridges in ourlarder, and came with us on the forecastle to pilot us through hisown intricate parish next day. 

Also came the last camp and the last dinner, at which the writerdistinguished himself, and the host-in-himself was at last allowedto manipulate (with accompanying lecture) a marvellous bivouac-tincontaining a compound called beef a la mode, which came providedwith its own spirits of wine and wick, both of which provedineffectual to raise the temperature of the beef above a mediocretepidity. Parker, having heard that the remains of this toothsomedish were intended for his breakfast, wisely hid it with such carethat the dog stole it and consumed it, with results which cannot bedwelt upon here. 

Of the vicissitudes of road travel we recollect but little. Theincipient sea-sickness endured during the first day has now lost itssting; the little differences about the relative virtues of devilledpartridge and beef a la mode are forgotten, and only the completenovelty, the heedless happiness of it all, remains. We did not evenknow the day of the week or the date; which ignorance, my masters, has a wealth of meaning nowadays. 

"Date--oh, ask Parker!" we would say. 

And Parker always knew. 

IN THE TRACK OF THE WANDERING JEW

 What hope is ours--what hope? To find no mercy After much war, and many travails done?

"Well, somebody must go; that is certain. "

And more than one man looked at me. It was not because I couldpossibly be that somebody, although I was young enough and of littleenough consequence. But Fortune had been busy with me. She hadknocked all the interest out of my life, and then she had proceededto shower her fickle favours upon me. I was by way of becoming asuccess in that line of life wherein I had been cast. I had beenmentioned in despatches, and somehow the bullets had passed by onthe other side. Her gracious Majesty had written to me twice as herdearly beloved Thomas, and I was well up in my profession. 

In those days things were differently done in India. There was lesstelegraphing here and there for instructions. There was more actionand less talk. The native gentleman did not sit on a jury then. 

"Yes, " said young Martello, "somebody must go. Question is--who?"

And they looked at me again. 

"There be those in high places, " I said, "who shall decide. "

They laughed and made no answer. They were pleased to think that Ishould have to decide which doctor should go to Capoo, where asickness unknown and incomprehensible had broken out. It was truethat I was senior surgeon of the division; indeed, I was surgeon-major of a tract of country as big as Scotland. It is India now, but in the days of which I write the question had not been settledwith a turbulent native prince. We were, in fact, settling thatquestion. 

Capoo was right in the heart of the new country, while we were inoccupation of a border town. Behind us lay India; in front, theUnknown. The garrison of Capoo was small and self-important, butsickness made itself conspicuous among its members. Their doctor--poor young Barber--died, and the self-importance of the Capoogarrison oozed out of their finger-ends. They sent down post-hasteto us for help, and a special letter addressed to me detailedsymptoms of no human malady. 

I had two men under me. The question seemed simple enough. One ofthem would have to go. As to which one there was really no doubtwhatever. The duty fell upon Thurkow. Thurkow was junior. Thismight prove to be Thurkow's opportunity, or--the other thing. 

We all knew that he would be willing enough to go; nay, he would beeager. But Thurkow's father was in command, which made all thedifference. 

While we were thinking over these things an orderly appeared at themess-room door. 

"Brigadier would like to see you, sir, " he said to me. And I had tothrow away the better half of a first-class manilla. 

The brigadier's quarters were across a square in the centre of along rambling palace, for which a handsome rent was duly paid. Wewere not making war. On the contrary, we were forcing peace downthe throat of the native prince on the point of a sword. 

Everything was upon a friendly footing. We were not an invadingforce. Oh, no! we were only the escort of a political officer. Wehad been quartered in this border town for more than a year, and thesenior officers' lady-wives had brought their lares and penates inthree bullock-carts a-piece. 

I suppose we were objects of envy. We had all the excitement ofnovelty without any of the penalties of active warfare. We werestrong enough to make an awful example of the whole Principality ata day's notice, and the Principality knew it, which kept bazaarprices down and made the coloured brother remember the hue of hischeek. 

In the palace there were half a dozen officers' quarters, and thesehad been apportioned to the married; consequently the palace hadthat air of homeliness which is supposed to be lacking in thequarters of single men. 

As I was crossing the square I heard some one running after me, and, turning, I faced Fitz. Fitz Marner--usually called Fitz--was mysecond in command and two years my junior. He was quite a differentsort of man to myself, and, if I may say so, a much better man. However, I am not going to talk about myself more than I can helpthis time. Some day I shall, and then I shall have a portrait onthe cover. This is an age of portraits. But some day the Britishpublic will wake up and will refuse to read the works of a smug-faced man in spectacles who tries to make them believe that he isdoughty, fearless, and beloved of beautiful damsels. The bookstallsare full to-day of works written in the first person singular, andrelating deeds of the utmost daring; while on the cover is aportrait of the author--the aforesaid smug man in spectacles--whohas not the good sense to suppress himself. 

Fitz was tall and lithe. He had a large brown moustache andpleasantly thoughtful eyes. His smile was the kindliest I have evermet. Moreover, a modester man than Fitz never breathed. He had away of carrying his chin rather low, so that when he looked at onehe had to raise his eyes, which imparted a pleasing suggestion ofattention to his face. It always seemed to me that Fitz listenedmore carefully to what was said to him than other men are in thehabit of doing. 

"Say, doctor, " he said, looking up at me in his peculiar thoughtfulway, "give me a chance. "

I knew what he meant. He wanted me to send him to a certain deathinstead of young Thurkow. Those little missions to that bourne fromwhence no traveller returns are all in the work of a soldier's life, and we two were soldiers, although ours was the task of repairinginstead of doing the damage. Every soldier-man and most civiliansknow that it is sometimes the duty of a red-coat to go and getkilled without pausing to ask whether it be expedient or not. Oneaide-de-camp may be sent on a mad attempt to get through the enemy'slines, while his colleague rides quietly to the rear with a despatchinside his tunic, the delivery of which to the commander-in-chiefwill ensure promotion. And in view of this the wholesome law ofseniority was invented. The missions come in rotation, andaccording to seniority the men step forward. 

Fitz Marner's place was at my side, where, by the way, I never wanta better man, for his will was iron, and he had no nerves whatever. Capoo, the stricken, was calling for help. Fitz and I knew moreabout cholera than we cared to discuss just then. Some one must goup to Capoo to fight a hopeless fight and die. And old Fitz--Godbless him!--was asking to go. 

In reply I laughed. 

"Not if I can help it. The fortune of war is the same for all. "

Fitz tugged at his moustache and looked gravely at me. 

"It is hard on the old man, " he said. "It is more than you canexpect. "

"Much, " I answered. "I gave up expecting justice some years ago. Iam sorry for the brigadier, of course. He committed the terriblemistake of getting his son into his own brigade, and this is theresult. All that he does to-night he does on his ownresponsibility. I am not inclined to help him. If it had been you, I should not have moved an inch--you know that. "

He turned half away, looking up speculatively at the yellow Indianmoon. 

"Yes, " he muttered, "I know that. "

And without another word he went back to the mess-room. 

I went on and entered the palace. To reach the brigadier's quartersI had to pass down the whole length of the building, and I was notin the least surprised to see Elsie Matheson waiting for me in oneof the passage-like ante-rooms. Elsie Matheson was bound to comeinto this matter sooner or later--I knew that; but I did not quiteknow in what capacity her advent might be expected. 

"What is this news from Capoo?" she asked, without attempting todisguise her anxiety. Her father, assistant political officer inthis affair, was not at Capoo or near there. He was upstairsplaying a rubber. 

"Bad, " I answered. 

She winced, but turned no paler. Women and horses are alwayssurprising me, and they never surprise me more than when in danger. Elsie Matheson was by no means a masculine young person. Had shebeen so, I should not have troubled to mention her. For me, mencannot be too manly, nor women too womanly. 

"What is the illness they have?" she asked. 

"I really cannot tell you, Elsie, " I answered. "Old Simpson haswritten me a long letter--he always had a fancy for symptoms, youknow--but I can make nothing of it. The symptoms he describes arequite impossible. They are too scientific for me. "

"You know it is cholera, " she snapped out with a strange littlebreak in her voice which I did not like, for I was very fond of thisgirl. 

"Perhaps it is, " I answered. 

She gave a funny little helpless look round her as if she wantedsomething to lean against. 

"And who will go?" she asked. She was watching me keenly. 

"Ah--that does not rest with me. "

"And if it did?"

"I should go myself. "

Her face lighted up suddenly. She had not thought of that. I boreher no ill-feeling, however. I did not expect her to love ME. 

"But they cannot spare you, " she was kind enough to say. 

"Everybody can always be spared--with alacrity, " I answered; "but itis not a question of that. It is a question of routine. One of theothers will have to go. "

"Which one?" she asked with a suddenly assumed indifference. 

It was precisely the question in my own mind, but relative to a verydifferent matter. If the decision rested with Miss Matheson, whichof these two men would she send to Capoo? Perhaps I looked rathertoo keenly into her face, for she turned suddenly away and drew thegauzy wrap she had thrown over her evening dress more closely roundher throat, for the passages were cold. 

"That does not rest with me, " I repeated, and I went on towards thebrigadier's quarters, leaving her--a white shadow in the dimlylighted passage. 

I found the chief at his own dinner-table with an untouched glass ofwine before him. 

"This is a bad business, " he said, looking at me with haggard eyes. I had never quite realized before what an old man he was. His trimbeard and moustache had been white for years, but he had always beena hale man up to his work--a fine soldier but not a great leader. There was a vein of indolence in Brigadier-General Thurkow's naturewhich had the same effect on his career as that caused by barnaclesround a ship's keel. This inherent indolence was a steady drag onthe man's life. Only one interest thoroughly aroused him--only onetrain of thought received the full gift of his mind. This oneabsorbing interest was his son Charlie, and it says much for CharlieThurkow that we did not hate him. 

The brigadier had lost his wife years before. All that belonged toancient history--to the old Company days before our time. To saythat he was absorbed in his son is to state the case in the mildestimaginable form. The love in this old man's heart for his reckless, happy-souled offspring was of that higher order which stops atnothing. There is a love that worketh wonders, and the same lovecan make a villain of an honest man. 

I looked at old Thurkow, sitting white-lipped behind the decanter, and I knew that there was villainy in his upright, honest heart. Hescarcely met my eyes. He moved uneasily in his chair. All througha long life this man had carried nobly the noblest name that can begiven to any--the name of gentleman. No great soldier, but a man ofdauntless courage. No strategist, but a leader who could be trustedwith his country's honour. Upright, honourable, honest, brave--andit had come to this. It had come to his sitting shamefaced before apoor unknown sawbones--not daring to look him in the face. 

His duty was plain enough. Charlie Thurkow's turn had come. Charlie Thurkow must be sent to Capoo--by his father's orders. Butthe old man--the soldier who had never turned his back on danger--could not do it. 

We were old friends, this man and I. I owed him much. He had mademy career, and I am afraid I had been his accomplice more than once. But we had never wronged any other man. Fitz had aided and abettedmore than once. It had been an understood thing between Fitz andmyself that the winds of our service were to be tempered to CharlieThurkow, and I imagine we had succeeded in withholding the fact fromhis knowledge. Like most spoilt sons, Charlie was a little selfish, with that convenient blindness which does not perceive how muchdirty work is done by others. 

But we had never deceived the brigadier. He was not easily deceivedin those matters which concerned his son. I knew the old man verywell, and for years I had been content to sit by the hour togetherand talk with him of Charlie. To tell the honest truth, MasterCharlie was a very ordinary young man. I take it that a solution ofall that was best in five Charles Thurkows would make up one FitzMarner. 

There was something horribly pathetic in the blindness of thisusually keen old man on this one point. He would sit there stifflybehind the decanter fingering his wine-glass, and make statementsabout Charlie which would have made me blush had that accomplishmentnot belonged to my past. A certain cheery impertinence whichcharacterized Charlie was fondly set down as savoir-faire and dash. A cheap wit was held to be brilliancy and conversational finish. And somehow we had all fallen into the way of humouring thebrigadier. I never told him, for instance, that his son was a verysecond-rate doctor and a nervous operator. I never hinted that manyof the cures which had been placed to his credit were the work ofFitz--that the men had no confidence in Charlie, and that they weresomewhat justified in their opinion. 

"This is a bad business, " repeated the brigadier, looking hard atthe despatch that lay on the table before him. 

"Yes, " I answered. 

He tossed the paper towards me and pointed to a chair. 

"Sit down!" he said sharply. "Have you had any report from poorBarber?"

In response I handed him the beginning of an official report. I saythe beginning, because it consisted of four lines only. It was inBarber's handwriting, and it broke off suddenly in the middle of aword before it began to tell me anything. In its way it was atragedy. Death had called for Barber while he was wondering how tospell "nauseous. " I also gave him Colonel Simpson's letter, whichhe read carefully. 

"What is it?" he asked suddenly, as he laid the papers aside. 

"Officially--I don't know. "

"And unofficially?"

"I am afraid it is cholera. "

The brigadier raised his glass of claret a few inches from thetable, but his hand was too unsteady, and he set the glass downagain untouched. I was helplessly sorry for him. There wassomething abject and humiliating in his averted gaze. Beneath hiswhite moustache his lips were twitching nervously. 

For a few moments there was silence, and I dreaded his next words. I was trembling for his manhood. 

"I suppose something must be done for them, " he said at length, hoarsely, and it was hard to believe that the voice was the voice ofour leader--a man dreaded in warfare, respected in peace. 

"Yes, " I answered uncompromisingly. 

"Some one must go to them--"

"Yes. "

Again there was that horrid silence, broken only by the tramp of thesentinel outside the glassless windows. 

"Who?" asked the brigadier, in little more than a whisper. 

I suppose he expected it of me--I suppose he knew that even for him, even in mercy to an old man whose only joy in life trembled at thatmoment in the balance, I could not perpetrate a cruel injustice. 

"It devolves on Charlie, " I answered. 

He gave one quick glance beneath his lashes, and again lowered hiseyes. I heard a long gasping sound, as if he found difficulty inbreathing. He sat upright, and threw back his shoulders with apitiable effort to be strong. 

"Is he up to the work?" he asked quietly. 

"I cannot conscientiously say that he is not. "

"D---n it, man, " he burst out suddenly, "is there no way out of it?"

"Yes--one way!"

"What is it?"

"I will go. "

"That is impossible, " he answered with a sublime unconsciousness ofhis own huge selfishness which almost made me laugh. This man wouldhave asked nothing for himself. For his son he had no shame inasking all. He would have accepted my offer, I could see that, hadit been possible. 

At this moment the door opened, and Charlie Thurkow came in. Hiseyes were bright with excitement, and he glanced at us both quickly. He was quite well aware of his father's weakness in regard tohimself, and I am afraid he sometimes took advantage of it. Heoften ignored discipline entirely, as he did in coming into the roomat that moment. 

I suppose there is in every one a sense of justice which accountsfor the subtle annoyance caused by the devotion of parents andothers--a devotion which has not the good sense to hide itself. There are few things more annoying than an exhibition of unjustlove. I rose at once. The coming interview would be either painfulor humiliating, and I preferred not to assist at it. 

As I went down the dark passages a man in a staff uniform, wearingspurs, clanked past me. I did not know until later that it wasFitz, for I could not see his face. 

I went back to my quarters, and was busy for some time with certaintechnicalities of my trade which are not worth detailing here. While I and my two dispensers were still measuring out and mixingdrugs, Fitz came to us. 

"I am going to Capoo, " he said quietly. 

In his silent, quick way he was taking in all that we were doing. We were packing medical stores for Capoo. I did not answer him, butwaited for further details. We could not speak openly before thetwo assistants at that moment, and somehow we never spoke about itat all. I glanced up at him. His face was pale beneath thesunburn. There was a drawn look just above his moustache, as if hislips were held tightly. 

"I volunteered, " he said, "and the brigadier accepted my offer. "

Whenever the word "duty" is mentioned, I think of Fitz to this day. 

I said nothing, but went on with my work. The whole business wastoo disgusting, too selfish, too unjust, to bear speaking of. 

I had long known that Fitz loved Elsie Matheson. In my feeble way, according to my scanty opportunity, I had endeavoured to assist him. But her name had never been mentioned between us except carelesslyin passing conversation. I knew no details. I did not even knowwhether Elsie knew of his love; but it was exceedingly likely thatif she did, he had not told her. As to her feelings, I wasignorant. She loved somebody, that much I knew. One can generallytell that. One sees it in a woman's eyes. But it is one thing toknow that a woman loves, and quite another to find out whom sheloves. I have tried in vain more than once. I once thought that Iwas the favoured person--not with Elsie, with quite another woman--but I was mistaken. I only know that those women who have that intheir eyes which I have learnt to recognize are better women thanthose who lack it. 

Fitz was the first to speak. 

"Don't put all of that into one case, " he said to one of thedispensers, indicating a row of bottles that stood on the floor. "Divide the different drugs over the cases, so that one or two ofthem can be lost without doing much harm. "

His voice was quite calm and practical. 

"When do you go?" I asked curtly. I was rather afraid of trustingmy voice too long, for Fitz was one of the few men who have reallyentered into my life sufficiently to leave a blank space behindthem. I have been a rolling stone, and what little moss I evergathered soon got knocked off, but it left scars. Fitz left a scar. 

"My orders are to start to-night--with one trooper, " he answered. 

"What time?"

"In half an hour. "

"I will ride with you a few miles, " I said. 

He turned and went to his quarters, which were next to mine. I wasstill at work when Charlie Thurkow came in. He had changed hisdress clothes for an old working suit. I was working in my eveningdress--a subtle difference. 

"Do you want any help?" he asked. I could hear a grievance in hisvoice. 

"Of course; get on packing that case; plenty of straw between thebottles. "

He obeyed me, working slowly, badly, without concentration, as healways did. 

"It's a beastly shame, isn't it?" he muttered presently. 

"Yes, " I answered, "it is. "

I suppose he did not detect the sarcasm. 

"Makes me look a fool, " he said heatedly. "Why couldn't thegovernor let me go and take my chance?"

The answer to this question being beyond my ken, I kept a discreetsilence. Giving him further instructions, I presently left myjunior to complete the task of packing up the necessary medicamentsfor Capoo. 

In less than half an hour Fitz and I mounted our horses. A few ofthe fellows came out of the messroom, cigar in mouth, to say good-bye to Fitz. One or two of them called out "Good luck" as we leftthem. Each wish was followed by a little laugh, as if the wisherwas ashamed of showing even so minute an emotion. It was, afterall, all in the way of our business. Many a time Fitz and I hadstood idle while these same men rode out to face death. It wasFitz's turn now--that was all. 

The Sikh trooper was waiting for us in the middle of the square--inthe moonlight--a grand picturesque figure. A long-faced, silentman, with deep eyes and a grizzled moustache. He wheeled his horse, and dropped ten paces in our rear. 

In the course of a varied experience Fitz and I had learnt to ridehard. We rode hard that night beneath the yellow moon, through thesleeping, odorous country. We both knew too well that cholera undercanvas is like a fire in a timber-yard. You may pump your drugsupon it, but without avail unless the pumping be scientific. Fitzrepresented science. Every moment meant a man's life. Our horsessoon settled into their stride with a pleasant creaking sound ofwarm leather and willing lungs. 

The moon was above and behind us; we each had a galloping shadowbeneath our horse's forefeet. It was a sandy country, and the hoofsonly produced a dull thud. There was something exhilarating in thespeed--in the shimmering Indian atmosphere. A sense of envy cameover me, and I dreaded the moment when I should have to turn andride soberly home, leaving Fitz to complete his forty-five milesbefore daylight. 

We were riding our chargers. They had naturally fallen into step, and bounded beneath us with a regular, mechanical rhythm. Bothalike had their heads down, their shoulders forward, with thatintelligent desire to do well which draws a man's heart towards ahorse in preference to any other animal. I looked sideways at Fitz, and waited for him to speak. But he was staring straight in frontof him, and seemed lost in thought. 

"You know, " I said at length, "you have done that old man an ill-turn. Even if you come back he will never forgive himself. He willnever look either of us straight in the face again. "

"Can't help that, " replied Fitz. "The thing--" He paused, as ifchoosing his words. "If, " he went on rather quickly, "the worstcomes to the worst, don't let people--ANY ONE--think that I did itbecause I didn't care, because I set no value on my life. The thingwas forced upon me. I was asked to volunteer for it. "

"All right, " I answered, rather absent-mindedly perhaps. I waswondering who "any one" might be, and also who had asked him tothrow away his life. The latter might, of course, be the brigadier. Surely it could not have been Elsie. But, as I said before, Ialways was uncertain about women. 

I did not say anything about hoping for the best. Fitz and I hadleft all that nonsense behind us years before. We did our businessamidst battle, murder, and sudden death. Perhaps we were callous, perhaps we had only learnt to value the thing at its true worth, anddid not set much fear on death. 

And then, I must ask you to believe, we fell to talking "shop. " Iknew a little more about cholera than did Fitz, and we got quiteinterested in our conversation. It is, I have found, only in booksthat men use the last moment to advantage. Death has been my road-fellow all through life, and no man has yet died in my arms sayingquite the right thing. Some of them made a joke, others were merelycommonplace, as all men really are whether living or dying. 

When the time came for me to turn back, Fitz had said nothing fitfor post-mortem reproduction. We had talked unmitigated "shop, "except the few odd observations I have set down. 

We shook hands, and I turned back at once. As I galloped I lookedback, and in the light of the great tropical moon I saw Fitz sittingforward in his saddle as the horse rose to the slope of a hill, galloping away into the night, into the unknown, on his mission ofmercy. At his heels rode the Sikh, enormous, silent, soldierly. 

During my steady run home I thought of those things concerning mycraft which required immediate consideration. Would it be necessaryto send down to India for help? Cholera at Capoo might mean choleraeverywhere in this new unknown country. What about the women andchildren? The Wandering Jew was abroad; would he wander in ourdirection, with the legendary curse following on his heels? Was Idestined to meet this dread foe a third time? I admit that the verythought caused a lump to rise in my throat. For I love ThomasAtkins. He is manly and honest according to his lights. It doesnot hurt me very much to see him with a bullet through his lungs ora sabre cut through the collar-bone down to the same part of hisanatomy. But it does hurt me exceedingly to see honest Thomas diebetween the sheets--the death of any common civilian beggar. Thomasis too good for that. 

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when I rode into thepalace square. All round I saw the sentinels, their bayonetsgleaming in the moonlight. A man was walking backwards and forwardsin the middle of the square by himself. When he heard me he cametowards me. At first I thought that it was my servant waiting totake the horse, but a moment later I recognized Charlie Thurkow--recognized him by his fair hair, for he was hatless. At the sametime my syce roused himself from slumber in the shadow of an arch, and ran forward to my stirrup. 

"Come to the hospital!" said Thurkow, the moment I alighted. Hisvoice was dull and unnatural. I once heard a man speak in the samevoice while collecting his men for a rush which meant certain death. The man was duly killed, and I think he was trembling with fear whenhe ran to his death. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"I don't know. "

We walked--almost ran--to the hospital, a long low building in thepalace compound. Charlie Thurkow led the way to a ward which we hadnever used--a ward I had set apart for infectious cases. A man wasdozing in a long chair in the open window. As we entered he rosehastily and brought a lamp. We bent over a bed--the only oneoccupied. The occupant was a man I did not know. He looked like aGoorkha, and he was dying. In a few moments I knew all that therewas to know. I knew that the Wandering Jew had passed our way. 

"Yes, " I said, rising from my knees at the bedside; "we have it. "

Of the days that followed it is not my intention to say much. Awoman once told me that I was afraid of nothing. She was mistaken. If she chance to read this and recognize it, I hope she will believethe assertion: I am, and always have been, afraid of cholera--inIndia. In Europe it is a different matter. The writing of thosedays would be unpleasant to me; the reading would be still lesspleasant to the reader. 

Brigadier-General Thurkow rose to the occasion, as we all expectedhim to do. It is one thing to send a man to a distant danger, andquite another to go with him into a danger which is close at hand. Charlie Thurkow and I were the only two doctors on the spot, andbefore help could reach us we should probably all be dead or cured. There was no shirking now. Charlie and I were at work night andday, and in the course of thirty-six hours Charlie got interested init. He reached the fighting point--that crisis in an epidemic ofwhich doctors can tell--that point where there is a certain glowingsense of battle over each bed--where death and the doctor see eachother face to face--fight hand to hand for the life. 

The doctor loses his interest in the patient as a friend or apatient; all his attention is centred on the life as a life, and apoint to be scored against the adversary Death. 

We had a very bad time for two days. At the end of that time I hadofficers bearing Her Majesty's commission serving under me asassistant nurses, and then the women came into it. The first tooffer herself was the wife of a non-commissioned officer in theEngineers, who had been through Netley. I accepted her. The secondwoman was Elsie Matheson. I refused point blank. 

"Sooner or later, " she said, looking at me steadily with somethingin her eyes which I could not make out, "you will have to take me. "

"Does your father know you have come to me?" I retorted. 

"Yes; I came with his consent. "

I shook my head and returned to my writing. I was filling in a listof terrific length. She did not go away, but stood in front of mewith a certain tranquillity which was unnatural under thecircumstances. 

"Do you want help?" she asked calmly. 

"God knows I do. "

"But not mine--?"

"Not yet, Elsie. I have not got so far as that yet. "

I did not look up, and she stood quite still over me--looking downat me--probably noting that the hair was getting a little thin onthe top of my head. This is not a joke. I repeat she was probablynoting that. People do note such things at such moments. 

"If you do not take me, " she said, in a singularly even voice, "Ishall go up to Capoo. Can you not see that that is the only thingthat can save me from going to Capoo--or going mad?"

I laid aside my pen, and looked up into her face, which she made nopretence of hiding from me. And I saw that it was as she said. 

"You can go to work at once, " I said, "under Mrs. Martin, in wardnumber four. "

When she had left me I did not go on filling in the list from thenotes in my pocket-book. I fell to wasting time instead. So it wasFitz. I was not surprised, but I was very pleased. I was notsurprised, because I have usually found that the better sort ofwoman has as keen a scent for the good men as we have. And Ithought of old Fitz--the best man I ever served with--fighting up atCapoo all alone, while I fought down in the valley. There was acertain sense of companionship in the thought, though my knowledgeand experience told me that our chances of meeting again were verysmall indeed. 

We had not heard from Capoo. The conclusion was obvious: they hadno one to send. 

Elsie Matheson soon became a splendid nurse. She was quitefearless--not with dash, but with the steady fearlessness that comesfrom an ever-present sense of duty, which is the best. She was kindand tender, but she was a little absent. In spirit she was nursingat Capoo; with us she was only in the body. 

When Charlie Thurkow heard that she had gone into ward number four, he displayed a sudden, singular anger. 

"It's not fit for her, " he said. "How could you do it?"

And I noticed that, so far as lay in his power, he kept the worstcases away from number four. 

It occasionally happens in life that duty is synonymous withinclination; not often, of course, but occasionally. I twistedinclination round into duty, and put Elsie to night work, whileCharlie Thurkow kept the day watches. I myself was forced to keepboth as best I could. 

Whenever I went into number four ward at night before (save themark) going to bed, I found Elsie Matheson waiting for me. It mustbe remembered that she was quite cut off from the little world thatsurrounded us in the palace. She had no means of obtaining news. Her only link with the outer universe was an occasional patientbrought in more dead than alive, and too much occupied with his ownaffairs to trouble about those of other people. 

"Any news?" she would whisper to me as we went round the bedstogether; and I knew that she meant Capoo. Capoo was all the worldfor her. It is strange how some little unknown spot on the earthwill rise up and come into our lives never to leave the memoryagain. 

"Nothing, " I replied with a melancholy regularity. 

Once only she broke through her reserve--through the habit ofbearing pain in silence which she had acquired by being so muchamong dying men. 

"Have you no opinion?" she asked, with a sharpness in her voicewhich I forgave as I heard it. 

"Upon what subject?"

"Upon. . . The chances. "

I shrugged my shoulders. 

"He is a good man--there is no better in India--that is all I cansay. Just hold the candle a little closer, will you, please?Thanks--yes--he is quite dead. "

We passed on to the next bed. 

"It is both his duty and his inclination to take care of himself, " Isaid as we went--going back with her in the spirit to Capoo. 

"How do you know it is his inclination?" she asked guardedly. 

And I knew that I was on the right path. The vague message given to"any one" by Fitz as he rode by my side that night--only a weekbefore, although it seemed to be months--that message was intendedfor Elsie. It referred to something that had gone before, of whichI had no knowledge. 

"Because he told me so, " I answered. 

And then we went on with our work. Charlie Thurkow was quite right. I knew that all along. It was not fit for her. Elsie was tooyoung, too gentle and delicate for such a place as ward number four. I make no mention of her beauty, for I took no heed of it then. Itwas there--but it had nothing to do with this matter. Also I havenever seen why women who are blessed or cursed by beauty should bemore considered in such matters, as they undoubtedly are. 

I was up and about all that night. The next morning rose gloomily, as if the day was awakening unrefreshed by a feverish sleep. Theheat had been intense all night, and we could look for nothing butan intensification of it when the sun rose with a tropicalaggressiveness. I wanted to get my reports filled in before lyingdown to snatch a little rest, and was still at work when CharlieThurkow came in to relieve me. He looked ghastly, but we all didthat, and I took no notice. He took up the ward-sheets and glanceddown the columns. 

"Wish I had gone to Capoo, " he muttered. "It couldn't have beenworse than this. "

I had finished my writing, and I rose. As I did so Charlie suddenlyclapped his hand to his hip. 

"I say!" he exclaimed, "I say!"

He looked at me in a stupid way, and then suddenly he totteredtowards me, and I caught him. 

"Old chap!" he exclaimed thickly, with his face against my shoulder, "I've got it. Take me to number four. "

He had seen by the list that there was a vacant cot in number four. 

I carried him there, stumbling as I went, for I was weak from wantof sleep. 

Elsie had just gone to her room, and Mrs. Martin was getting thevacant bed ready. I was by that bedside all day. All that I knew Idid for Charlie Thurkow. I dosed myself with more than one Indiandrug to stimulate the brain--to keep myself up to doing andthinking. This was a white man's life, and God forgive me if I setundue store upon it as compared with the black lives we were losingdaily. This was a brain that could think for the rest. There wasmore than one man's life wrapped up in Charlie Thurkow's. One cannever tell. My time might come at any moment, and the help we hadsent for could not reach us for another fortnight. 

Charlie said nothing. He thanked me at intervals for some littleservice rendered, and nearly all the time his eyes were fixed uponthe clock. He was reckoning with his own life. He did not want todie in the day, but in the night. He was deliberately spinning outhis life till the night nurse came on duty. I suppose that in hissuperficial, happy-go-lucky way he loved her. 

I pulled him through that day, and we managed to refrain from wakingElsie up. At nightfall she came to her post. When she came intothe room I was writing a note to the brigadier. I watched her faceas she came towards us. There was only distress upon it--nothingelse. Even women--even beautiful women grow callous; thank Heaven!Charlie Thurkow gave a long sigh of relief when she came. 

My note was duly sent to the brigadier, and five minutes afterwardsI went out on to the verandah to speak to him. I managed to keephim out of the room by a promise that he should be sent for later. I made no pretence about it, and he knew that it was only thequestion of a few hours when he walked back across the palace squareto his quarters. I came back to the verandah, and found Elsiewaiting to speak to me. 

"Will he die?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"Quite sure?"

There was a strange glitter in her eyes which I could notunderstand. 

"Quite, " I answered, forgetting to be professional. She looked atme for a moment as if she were about to say something, and then sheapparently decided not to say it. 

I went towards a long chair which stood on the verandah. 

"I shall lie down here, " I said, "and sleep for an hour. "

"Yes, do, " she answered almost gratefully. 

"You will wake me if you want me?"

"Yes. "

"Wake me when. . . The change comes. "

"Yes. "

In a few moments I was asleep. I do not know what woke me up. Itseemed to be very late. All the sounds of barrack life were hushed. The moon was just up. I rose to my feet and turned to the openwindow. But there I stopped. 

Elsie was kneeling by Charlie Thurkow's bed. She was leaning overhim, and I could see that she was kissing him. And I knew that shedid not love him. 

I kicked against the chair purposely. Elsie turned and lookedtowards me, with her hand still resting on Charlie Thurkow'sforehead. She beckoned me to go to them, and I saw at once that hewas much weaker. She was stroking his hair gently. She either gaveme credit for great discernment, or she did not care what I thought. 

I saw that the time had come for me to fulfil my promise to thebrigadier, and went out of the open window to send one of thesentinels for him. As I was speaking to the man I heard the clatterof a horse's feet, and a Sikh rode hard into the palace square. Iwent towards him, and he, recognizing me, handed me a note which heextracted from the folds of his turban. I opened the paper and readit by the light of the moon. My heart gave a leap in my throat. Itwas from Fitz. News at last from Capoo. 

"We have got it under, " he wrote. "I am coming down to help you. Shall be with you almost as soon as the bearer. "

As I walked back towards the hospital the brigadier came runningbehind me, and caught me up as I stepped in by the window. I hadneither time nor inclination just then to tell him that I had newsfrom Capoo. The Sikh no doubt brought official news which wouldreach their destination in due course. And in the mean time CharlieThurkow was dying. 

We stood round that bed and waited silent, emotionless for theangel. Charlie knew only too well that the end was very near. Fromtime to time he smiled rather wearily at one or the other of us, andonce over his face there came that strange look of a higherknowledge which I have often noted, as if he knew something that wedid not--something which he had been forbidden to tell us. 

While we were standing there the matting of the window was pushedaside, and Fitz came softly into the dimly lighted room. He glancedat me, but attempted no sort of salutation. I saw him exchange along silent look with Elsie, and then he took his station at thebedside next to Elsie, and opposite to the brigadier, who neverlooked up. 

Charlie Thurkow recognized him, and gave him one of those strangelypatronizing smiles. Then he turned his sunken eyes towards Elsie. He looked at her with a gaze that became more and more fixed. Westood there for a few minutes--then I spoke. 

"He is dead, " I said. 

The brigadier raised his eyes and looked across to Fitz. For asecond these two men looked down into each other's souls, and Isuppose Fitz had his reward. I suppose the brigadier had paid hisdebt in full. I had been through too many painful scenes to wish toprolong this. So I turned away, and a general move was the result. 

Then I saw that Elsie and Fitz had been standing hand-in-hand allthe while. 

So wags the world. 

THROUGH THE GATE OF TEARS

 Give us--ah! give us--but Yesterday!

In the old days, when the Mahanaddy was making her reputation, shehad her tragedy. And Dr. Mark Ruthine has not forgotten it, norforgiven himself yet. Doctors, like the rest of us, are apt to makea hideous mistake or two which resemble the stream anchors of a bigsteamer warping out into the Hooghly. We leave them behind, but wedo not let go of them. They make a distinct difference to thecourse of our journey down the stream. Sometimes they hold us back;occasionally they swing us into the middle of the current, wherethere is no shoal. Like the stream anchors, they are always there, behind us, for our good. 

Some few of the Mahanaddy passengers have remarked that Mark Ruthineinvariably locks his cabin-door whenever he leaves the little denthat serves him for surgery and home. This is the outward sign ofan inward unforgotten sore. 

This, by the way, is not a moral tale. Virtue does not triumph, norwill vice be crushed. It is the mere record of a few mistakes, culminating in Mark Ruthine's blunder--a little note on human naturewithout vice in it; for there is little vice in human nature if onetakes the trouble to sift that which masquerades as such. 

It was, therefore, in old days, long ago, on an outward voyage toMadras, that Miss Norah Hood was placed under the care of thecaptain, hedged safely round by an engagement to an old playmate, and shipped off to the land where the Anglo-Saxon dabbles intragedy. 

Norah is fortunately not a common name. Mark Ruthine's countenance--a still one--changes ever so slightly whenever he hears the name orsees it in print. Another outward sign, and, as such, naturallysmall. 

When the captain was introduced by a tall and refined old clergymanto Miss Norah Hood, he found himself shaking hands with a graveyoung person of unassertive beauty. Hers was the loveliness of theviolet, which is apt to pall in this modern day--to aggravate, andto suggest wanton waste. For feminine loveliness is on the wane--marred, like many other good things, by over-education. Norah Hoodwas a typical country parson's daughter, who knew the right and didit, ignored the wrong and refused to believe in it. 

The captain was busy with his Mahanaddy. He looked over hisshoulder, and, seeing Mark Ruthine, called him by a glance. 

"This is my doctor, " he said, to the scholarly parson. "He will behappy to see that Miss Hood is comfortably settled among us. I amnaturally rather a busy man until we leave the Start Light behindus. "

So Mark Ruthine hovered about, and discreetly looked the other waywhen the moment of parting came. He suspected, shrewdly enough, that Norah was the eldest of a large family--one less to feed andclothe. An old story. As the great ship glided gently away fromthe quay--in those days the Mahanaddy loaded at Southampton--he wentand stood beside Norah Hood. Not that he had anything to say toher; but his calling of novelist, his experience of doctor, taughthim that a silent support is what women sometimes want. They dealso largely in words that a few unexplained deeds sometimes refreshthem. 

He stood there until the tall, slim form in the rusty black coat wasno longer discernible. Then he made a little movement and spoke. 

"Have you been to your cabin?" he asked. "Do you know where it is?"

"I have not seen it, " she answered composedly. "The number of myberth is seventy-seven. "

There was a singular lack of fluster. It was impossible to divinethat she had never trod the deck of a big steamer before--that herwalk in life had been limited to the confines of a tiny, remoteparish in the eastern counties. Ruthine glanced at her. He sawthat she was quite self-possessed, with something more complete thanthe self-possession of good breeding. It was quite obvious thatthis woman--for Norah Hood was leaving girlhood behind--had led anarrow, busy life. She had obviously lost the habit of attachingmuch importance to her own feelings, her own immediate fate orpassing desires, because more pressing matters had so long absorbedher. There was a faint suggestion of that self-neglect, almostamounting to self-contempt, which characterizes the manner ofoverburdened motherhood. This would account for her apparentignorance of the fact that she was beautiful. 

As he led the way down below Ruthine glanced at her again. He hadan easy excuse for so doing on the brass-bound stairs, wherelandsmen feet may slip. He was, above all things, a novelist, although he wrote under another and greater name, and those aroundhim knew him not. He looked more at human minds than human bodies, and he was never weary of telling his friends that he was a poordoctor. He concluded--indeed, her father had almost told him--thatshe was going out to be married. But he needed not to be told thatshe was going to marry a man whom she did not love. He found thatout for himself in a flash of his quiet grey eyes. An expert lessskilful than himself could see that Norah Hood did not know whatlove was. Some women are thus--some few, God help them! go throughlife in the same ignorance. 

He took her down to her cabin--a small one, which she was fortunateenough to have to herself. He told her the hours of the meals, thehabits of the ship, and the customs of the ocean. He had a graveway with him, this doctor, and could put on a fatherly manner whenthe moment needed it. Norah listened with a gravity equal to hisown. She listened, moreover, with an intelligence which he noted. 

"If you will come, " he said, "on deck again, I will introduce you toa very kind friend of mine--Mrs. Stellasis. You have heard of JohnStellasis?"

"No, " answered Norah, rather indifferently. 

"You will some day--all the world will. Stellasis is one of ourgreat men in India. Mrs. Stellasis is a great lady. "

This was a prophecy. 

They went on deck, and Mark Ruthine effected the introduction. Hestayed beside them for a few moments, and did not leave them untilthey were deeply engrossed in a conversation respecting babies ingeneral, and in particular a small specimen which Mrs. Stellasis hadlately received. 

An Indian-going steamer is rather like a big box of toys. She goesbumping down Channel, rolling through the Bay, and, by the time thatGibraltar is left behind, she has shaken her passengers into theirplaces. 

Norah Hood shook down very quietly into the neighbourhood of Mrs. Stellasis, who liked her and began to understand her. Mrs. Stellasis--a good woman and a mother--pitied Norah Hood with anincreasing pity; for as the quiet Mediterranean days wore to a closeshe had established without doubt the fact that the engagement tothe old playmate was a sordid contract entered into in all innocenceby a girl worthy of a better fate. But Mrs. Stellasis hoped for thebest. She thought of the "specimen" slumbering in a berth six sizestoo large for it, and reflected that Norah Hood might snatchconsiderable happiness out of the contract after all. 

"Do you know anything of the old playmate?" Mrs. Stellasis asked Dr. Ruthine suddenly one afternoon in the Red Sea. 

Mark Ruthine looked into the pleasant face and saw a back to thequestion--many backs, extending away into a perspective of femininespeculation. 

"No, " he answered slowly. 

They lapsed into a little silence. And then they both looked up, and saw Norah Hood walking slowly backwards and forwards with ManlyFenn of the Guides. 

After all, it was only natural that these two young persons shoulddrift together. They were both so "quiet and stupid. " Neither hadmuch to say to the world, and they both alike heard what the worldhad to say with that somewhat judicial calm which knocks down feeblewit. 

There was no sparkle about either of them, and the world is given topreferring bad champagne to good burgundy because of the sparkle. The world therefore left Manly Fenn alone; and Manly Fenn, wellpleased, went about his own business. It has been decreed that menwho go about their own business very carefully find that it is alarger affair than they at first took it to be. Manly Fenn hadnever been aware until quite lately that these things which he tookto be his own affairs were in reality the business of an Empire. The Empire found it out before Manly Fenn--found it out, indeed, when its faithful servant was hiring himself out as assistant-herdsman to a large farmer on the Beloochistan frontier. 

And Major Fenn had to buy a new uniform, had to interview many high-placed persons, and had, finally, to present himself before hisGracious Sovereign, who hooked a little cross into the padding ofhis tunic--all of which matters were extremely disagreeable to ManlyFenn. 

Finally, the devil--as the captain bluffly affirmed--brought it topass that he, Manly Fenn, should take passage in the Mahanaddy onthe voyage of which we have to do. 

It was very sudden, and many thorough things are so. It happenedsomewhere in the Red Sea, and Mrs. Stellasis was probably the firstto sniff danger in the breeze. That was why she asked Mark Ruthineif he knew anything about the old playmate to whom Norah Hood wasengaged. That was why Mark Ruthine looked for the back of thequestion; for he was almost as expert as a woman among thehumanities. 

Somewhere between Ismailia and the Gate of Tears, Love came on boardthe Mahanaddy--a sorry pilot--and took charge of Manly Fenn and thegirl who was going out to marry her old playmate. 

It was a serious matter from the first--like a fever that takes aman of middle age who has never been ill before. 

There was a consultation of the authorities--Mrs Stellasis, namely, and the captain, and Mark Ruthine. 

The captain disgraced himself early in the proceedings. 

"Perhaps it is only a flirtation, " he said. 

Whereupon Mrs. Stellasis laughed scornfully, and the marinercollapsed. Moreover, the consultation resulted in nothing, althoughStellasis himself joined it, looking grave and thoughtful behind hisgreat grey moustache. 

"Known Manly Fenn for ten years, " he said; "but I am afraid of himstill. I cannot speak to him. Can you not say something to thegirl?"

But Mrs. Stellasis shook her head with determination. That was theworst of it--they were not the sort of persons to whom one can saysuch things. The captain was technically responsible, but he hadproved himself utterly incompetent. "No, " said Mrs. Stellasisfinally. There was nothing to be done but hope for the best. Ofcourse, Mrs. Stellasis was without conscience--quite withoutjustice. It is to be feared that nearly all women are. She was allfor Manly Fenn and dead against the old playmate, whom sheintuitively described as "that stupid. "

In the mean time all the ship knew it. In some ways the twoculprits were singularly innocent. It is possible that they did notknow that the world is never content unless it is elbow-deep in itsneighbour's pie--that their affairs were the talk of the Mahanaddy. It is also possible that they knew and did not care. 

The good steamer pounded out of the Gate of Tears and struck a bee-line across the Arabian Sea. The passengers settled down to awaitthe sequel which would be delivered to them at Madras. 

Norah Hood and Fenn were together from morning till night. Theyseemed to ignore the sequel, which made it all the more exciting forthe lookers-on. Norah still saw a good deal of Mrs. Stellasis. Shestill took a great interest in the "specimen, " whose small ailmentsreceived her careful attention. With Mark Ruthine she was almostfamiliar, in her quiet way. She came to his little surgery to getsuch minute potions as the "specimen" might require. She even gotto know the bottles, and mixed the drugs herself while he laughinglywatched her. She had dispensed for a village population at home, and knew a little medicine. 

Ruthine encouraged her to come, gave her the freedom of his medicinechests, and all the while he watched her. She interested him. There were so many things which he could not reconcile. 

In some ways she was quite a different woman. This love which hadcome to her suddenly--rather late in her life--had made a strangebeing of her. She was still gentle, and rather prim and quite self-possessed. She looked Ruthine in the face, and knew that he knewall about her; but she was not in the least discomposed. She wasastonishingly daring. She defied him and the whole world--gently. 

The little Dutch lighthouse at Galle was duly sighted, and theMahanaddy was in the Bay of Bengal. The last dinner was dulyconsumed, and the usual speech made by the usual self-assertive oldcivilian. And, for the last time, the Mahanaddy passengers saidgood night to each other, seeking their cabins with a pleasant senseof anticipation. The next day would bring the sequel. 

A stewardess awoke Mark Ruthine up before it was light. He followedthe woman to number seventy-seven cabin. There he found Norah Hood, dressed, lying quietly on her berth--dead. 

A bottle--one of his bottles from the medicine-chest--stood on thetable beside her. 

A PARIAH

 "I have heard that there is corn in Egypt. "

Slyne's Chare is in South Shields, and Mason's Chop House stands atthe lower corner of Slyne's Chare--Mason's Chop House, wheregenerations of honest Tyneside sailors have consumed pounds ofhonest mutton and beef, and onions therewith. For your true saltloves an onion ashore, which makes him a pleasanter companion atsea. Mason's Chop House is a low-roofed, red-tiled, tarred cottagewith a balcony--a "balcohny" overhanging the river. It is quiteevident that the "balcohny" was originally built, and hassubsequently been kept in repair, by ships' carpenters. It is soglaringly ship-shape, so redolent of tar, so ridiculously strong. 

The keen fresh breeze--and there is nothing keener, fresher, stronger, and wholesomer in the world than that which comes roaringup between the two piers of the Tyne--this breeze blows rightthrough Mason's, and blows the fume of cooking out into Slyne'sChare. 

It is evening--tea-time--and the day's work is almost done; forMason's does little in suppers. A bullet-headed boy is rubbingpewter pots at the door. Mrs. Mason, comfortably somnolent at theentrance of the little kitchen, watches her daughter--comely, grave-faced Annie Mason--"our Annie, " as she is called, who is alreadyfolding the table-cloths. A few belated customers linger in thepartitioned loose-boxes which lend a certain small privacy to thetables, and often save a fight. They are talking in gruff, North-country voices, which are never harsh. 

A man comes in, after a moment's awkward pause at the open door, andseeks a secluded seat where the gas overhead hardly affordsillumination. He is a broad-built man--a Tynesider; not so very bigfor South Shields; a matter of six feet one, perhaps. He carries ablue spotted handkerchief against his left cheek, and the boy withthe pewter pots stares eagerly at the other. A boy of poor tactthis; for the customer's right cheek is horribly disfigured. It isall bruised and battered in from the curve of a square jaw to thecheek-bone, which is broken. But the eye is intact; a shrewd, keeneye, accustomed to the penetration of a Northern mist--accustomed toa close scrutiny of men's faces. It is painfully obvious that thissailor--for gait and clothes and manner set aside all other crafts--is horribly conscious of his deformity. 

"Got the toothache?" inquires the tactless youth. 

The new-comer replies in the negative and orders a cup of tea and aherring. It is Annie who brings the simple meal and sets it downwithout looking at the man. 

"Thanks, " he growls in his brown beard, and the woman pausessuddenly. She listens, as if hearing some distant sound. Then sheslowly turns--for she has gone a step or two from the table--andmakes a pretence of setting the salt and pepper closer to him. 

Three ships had come up with the afternoon tide--a coaster, aNorwegian barque in ballast, and a full-rigged ship with nitratefrom the West Coast of South America. 

"Just ashore?" inquired Annie--economical with her words, as theymostly are round the Northern river. 

"Ay!"

"From the West Coast?"

"Ay, " grumbles the man. He holds the handkerchief to his cheek, andturns the herring tentatively with a fork. 

"You'll find it's a good enough fish, " says the woman, bluntly. Hertwo hands are pressed to her comely bosom in a singular way. 

"Ay!" says the man again, as if he had no other word. 

The clock strikes six, and the boy, more mindful of his own tea thanhis neighbour's ailments, slips on his jacket and goes home. Thelast customers dawdle out with a grunt intended for a salutation. Mrs. Mason is softly heard to snore. And all the while Annie Mason--all the colour vanished from her wholesome face--stands with herhands clutching her dress, gazing down at the man, who stillexamines the herring with a self-conscious awkwardness. 

"Geordie!" she says. They are all called Geordie in South Shields. 

"Ay, lass!" he answers, shamefacedly. 

Annie Mason sits down suddenly--opposite to him. He does not lookup but remains, his face half hidden by the spotted bluehandkerchief, a picture of self-conscious guilt and shame. 

"What did ye did it for, Geordie?" she asks, breathlessly. "Elevenyears, come March--oh, it was cruel!"

"What did I do it for?" he repeats. "What did I do it for? Why, lass, can't ye see my face?"

He drops the handkerchief, and holds up his poor scarredcountenance. He does not look at her, but away past her with thepathetic shame of a maimed dog. The cheek thus suddenly exposed toview is whole and brown and healthy. Beneath the mahogany-colouredskin there is a glow singularly suggestive of a blush. 

"Ay, I see your face, " she answers, with a note of tenderness forthe poor scarred cheek. "I hope you haven't been at the drink. "

He shakes his head with a little sad smile that twists up his one-sided mouth. 

"Is it because you wanted to get shot of me?" asks the woman, with asort of breathlessness. She has large grey-blue eyes with a look ofconstant waiting in them--a habit of looking up at the open door atthe sound of every footstep. 

"D---n it, Annie. Could I come back to you with a face like this;and you the prettiest lass on the Tyneside?"

She is fumbling with her apron string. There is a half-coquettishbend of her head--with the grey hairs already at the temple--awakened perhaps by some far-off echo in his passionate voice. Shelooks up slowly, and does not answer his question. 

"Tell us, " she says slowly. "Tell us where ye've been. "

"Been?--oh, I don't know, lass! I don't rightly remember. Not thatit matters. Up the West Coast, trading backwards and forwards. I've got my master's certificate now. Serving first mate on boardthe Mallard to Falmouth for orders, and they ordered us to the Tyne. I brought her round--I knew the way. I thought you'd be married, lass. But maybe ye are?"

"Maybe I'm daft, " puts in Annie coolly. 

"I greatly feared, " the man goes on with the slow self-consciousnessof one unaccustomed to talk of himself. "I greatly feared I'd meetup with a bairn of yours playing in the doorway. Losh! I could nothave stood THAT! But that's why I stayed away, Annie, lass! Sothat you might marry a man with a face on him. I thought you wouldnot know me if I held up my handkerchief over my other cheek!"

There is a strange gleam in the woman's eyes--a gleam that one ortwo of the old masters have succeeded in catching and imparting tothe face of their Madonnas, but only one or two. 

"How did you come by your hurt?" she asks in her low voice. 

"Board the old Walleroo going out. You mind the old ship? We had afire in the hold, and the skipper he would go down alone to locateit before we cut a hole in the deck and shipped the hose in. Theold man did not come up again. Ye mind him. Old Rutherford ofJarrow. And I went down and looked for him. It was a hell of smokeand fire, and something in the cargo stinking like--like hell fireas it burnt. I got a hold of the old man, and was fetching him outon my hands and knees, when something busts up and sends us allthrough the deck. I had three months in Valparaiso hospital; but Isaved old Jack Rutherford of Jarrow. And when I got up and lookedat my face I saw that it was not in the nature of things that Icould ever ask a lass to have me. So I just stayed away and madebelieve that--that I had changed my mind. "

The man pauses. He is not glib of speech, though quick enough atsea. As he takes up the little teapot and shakes it roundwise, after the manner of the galley, his great brown hand shakes too. 

"I would not have come back here, " he goes on after a silence; "butthe Mallard was ordered to the Tyne. And a chap must do his duty byhis shipmates and his owners. And I thought it would be safe--aftereleven years. When I saw the old place and smelt the smell of theold woman's frying-pan, I could not get past the door. But I hungaround, looking to make sure there were no bairns playing on thefloor. I have only come in, lass, to pass the time of day and totell you ye're a free woman. "

He is not looking at her. He seems to find that difficult. So hedoes not see the queer little smile--rather sadder, in itself, thantears. 

"And you stayed away eleven years--because o' THAT?" says the woman, slowly. 

"Ay, you know, lass, I'm no great hand at the preaching and Biblesand the like; but it seems pretty clear that them who's workingthings did not think it fit that we should marry. And so it wassent. I got to think it so in time--least, I think it's thatsometimes. And no woman would like to say, 'That's my man--him withonly half a face. ' So I just stayed away. "

"All for that?" asks the woman, her face, which is still, pretty andround and rosy, working convulsively. 

"Ay, lass. "

"Then, honey, " she cries softly, "you dinna understand us women!"

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

"Yes, mother, he will come. Of course he will come!" And the girlturned her drawn and anxious young face towards the cottage door, just as if her blind mother could see the action. 

It is probable that the old woman divined the longing glance fromthe change in the girl's tone, for she, too, half turned towards thedoor. It was a habit these two women had acquired. They constantlylooked towards the door for the arrival of one who never camethrough the long summer days, through the quiet winter evenings;moreover, they rarely spoke of other things, this arrival was thetopic of their lives. And now the old woman's life was drawing to aclose, as some lives do, without its object. She herself felt it, and her daughter knew it. 

There was in both of them a subtle sense of clinging. It was hardto die without touching the reward of a wondrous patience. It wascruel to deprive the girl of this burden, for in most burdens thereis a safeguard, in all a duty, and in some the greatest happinessallotted to human existence. 

It was no new thing, this waiting for the scapegrace son; the girlhad grown up to it, for she would not know her brother should shemeet him in the street. Since sight had left the old mother's eyes, she had fed her heart upon this hope. 

He had left them eighteen years before in a fit of passionateresentment against his father, whose only fault had been too greatan indulgence for the son of his old age. Nothing had been too goodfor dear Stephen--hardly anything had been good enough. Educated ata charity school himself, the simple old clergyman held the mistakenview that no man can be educated above his station. 

There are some people who hold this view still, but they cannot doso much longer. Strikes, labour troubles, and the difficulties ofdomestic service, so called gentleman farmers, gentleman shopkeepersand lady milliners--above all, a few colonies peopled by Universityfailures, will teach us in time that to educate our sons above theirstation is to handicap them cruelly in the race of life. 

Stephen Leach was one of the early victims to this craze. Hisfather, having risen by the force of his own will and thecapabilities of his own mind from the People to the Church, held, assuch men do, that he had only to give his son a good education toensure his career in life. So everything--even to the old parson'ssense of right and wrong--was sacrificed to the education of StephenLeach at public school and University. Here he met and selected forhis friends youths whose futures were ensured, and who were onlypassing through the formula of an education so that no one could saythey were unfit for the snug Government appointment, living, orinheritance of a more substantial sort, that might be waiting forthem. Stephen acquired their ways of life without possessing theiradvantages, and the consequence was something very nearlyapproaching to ruin for the little country rectory. Not having beena University man himself, the rector did not know that at Oxford orCambridge, as in the army, one may live according to one's taste. Stephen Leach had expensive tastes, and he unscrupulously traded onhis father's ignorance. He was good-looking, and had a certainbrilliancy of manner which "goes down" well at the 'Varsity. Everything was against him, and at last the end came. At last therector's eyes were opened, and when a narrow-minded man's eyes areonce opened he usually becomes stony at heart. 

Stephen Leach left England, and before he landed in America hisfather had departed on a longer journey. The ne'er-do-well had thegood grace to send back the little sums of money saved by his motherin her widowhood, and gradually his letters ceased. It was knownthat he was in Chili, and there was war going on there, and yet thegood old lady's faith never wavered. 

"He will come, Joyce, " she would say; "he will surely come. "

And somehow it came to be an understood thing that he was to come inthe afternoon when they were all ready for him--when Joyce had cladher pretty young form in a dark dress, and when the old lady was upand seated in her chair by the fire in winter, by the door insummer. They had never imagined his arrival at another time. Itwould not be quite the same should he make a mistake and come in themorning, before Joyce had got the house put right. 

Yet, he never came. A greater infirmity came instead, and at lastJoyce suggested that her mother should not get up in bad weather. They both knew what this meant, but the episode passed as others do, and Mrs. Leach was bedridden. Still she said -

"He will come, Joyce! He will surely come. "

And the girl would go to the window and draw aside the curtain, looking down the quiet country road towards the village. 

"Yes, mother, he will come!" was her usual answer; and one day shegave a little exclamation of surprise and almost of fear. 

"Mother, " she exclaimed, "there is some one coming along the road. "

The old lady was already sitting up in bed, staring with hersightless orbs towards the window. 

Thus they waited. The man stopped opposite the cottage, and the twowomen heard the latch of the gate. Then Joyce, turning, saw thather mother had fainted. But it was only momentary. By the time shereached the bed her mother had recovered consciousness. 

"Go, " said the old lady, breathlessly; "go and let him in yourself. "

Downstairs, on the doorstep, the girl found a tall man of thirty orthereabouts with a browner face than English suns could account for. He looked down into her eager eyes with a strange questioningwonder. 

"Am I too late?" he asked in a voice which almost seemed to indicatea hope that it might be so. 

"No, Stephen, " she answered. "But mother cannot live much longer. You are just in time. "

The young man made a hesitating little movement with his right handand shuffled uneasily on the clean stone step. He was like an actorcalled suddenly upon the stage having no knowledge of his part. Thereturn of this prodigal was not a dramatic success. No one seemeddesirous of learning whether he had lived upon husks or otherwiseand with whom he had eaten. The quiet dignity of the girl, who hadremained behind to do all the work and bear all the burden seemed insome subtle manner to deprive him of any romance that might haveattached itself to him. She ignored his half-proffered hand, andturning into the little passage, led the way upstairs. 

Stephen Leach followed silently. He was rather large for the house, and especially for the stairs; moreover, he had a certain burlinessof walk, such as is acquired by men living constantly in the open. There was a vaguely-pained look in his blue eyes, as if they hadsuddenly been opened to his own shortcomings. His attitude towardsJoyce was distinctly apologetic. 

When he followed the girl across the threshold of their mother'sbedroom the old lady was sitting up in bed, holding out tremblingarms towards the door. 

Here Stephen Leach seemed to know better what to do. He held hismother in his arms while she sobbed and murmured out her joy. Hehad no words, but his arms meant more than his lips could ever havetold. 

It would seem that the best part of happiness is the sharing of itwith some one else. 

"Joyce, " was the first distinct word the old lady spoke, "Joyce, hehas come at last. He has come! Come here, dear. Kiss yourbrother. This is my firstborn--my little Steve. "

The young man had sunk upon his knees at the bedside, probablybecause it was the most convenient position. He did not second hismother's proposal with much enthusiasm. Altogether he did not seemto have discovered much sympathy with the sister whom he had left inher cradle. 

Joyce came forward and leaned over the bed to kiss her brother whilethe old lady's hands joined theirs. Just as her fresh young lipscame within reach he turned his face aside, so that the kiss fell onbarren ground on his tanned cheek. 

"Joyce, " continued the old lady, feverishly, "I am not afraid to dienow, for Stephen is here. Your brother will take care of you, dear, when I am gone. "

It was strange that Stephen had not spoken yet; and it was perhapsjust as well, because there are occasions in life when men do wiselyto keep silent. 

"He is strong, " the proud mother went on. "I can feel it. Hishands are large and steady and quiet, and his arms are big and veryhard. "

The young man knelt upright and submitted gravely to this maternalinventory. 

"Yes, " she said, "I knew he would grow to be a big man. His littlefingers were so strong--he hurt me sometimes. What a greatmoustache! I knew you had been a soldier. And the skin of yourface is brown and a little rough. What is this? what is this, Stephen dear? Is this a wound?"

"Yes, " answered the Prodigal, speaking for the first time. "That isa sword cut. I got that in the last war. I am a colonel in theChilian army, or was, before I resigned. "

The old lady's sightless eyes were fixed on his face, as iflistening for the echo of another voice in his deep quiet tones. 

"Your voice is deeper than your father's ever was, " she said; andall the while her trembling fingers moved lovingly over his face, touching the deep cut from cheek-bone to jaw with soft inquiry. "This must have been very near your eye, Stephen. Promise me, dear, no more soldiering. "

"I promise that, " he replied, without raising his eyes. 

Such was the home-coming of the Prodigal. After all, he arrived atthe right moment in the afternoon, when the house was ready. Itsometimes does happen so in real life, and not only in books. Thereis a great deal that might be altered in this world, but sometimes, by a mere chance, things come about rightly. And yet there wassomething wrong, something subtle, which the dying woman's dullersenses failed to detect. Her son, her Stephen, was quiet, and hadnot much to say for himself. He apparently had the habit of takingthings as they came. There was no enthusiasm, but rather arestraint in his manner, more especially towards Joyce. 

The girl noticed it, but even her small experience of human kind hadtaught her that large, fair-skinned men are often thus. They arenot "de ceux qui s'expliquent, " but go through life placidly, leaving unsaid and undone many things which some think they ought tosay and do. 

After the first excitement of the return was over it becameglaringly apparent that Stephen had arrived just in time. Hismother fell into a happy sleep before sunset; and when the activeyoung doctor came a little later in the evening he shook his head. 

"Yes, " he said, "I see that she is asleep and quiet--too quiet. Itis a foretaste of a longer sleep; some old people have it. "

For the first time Joyce's courage seemed to give way. When she hadbeen alone she was brave enough, but now that her brother was there, woman-like, she seemed to turn to him with a sudden fear. Theystood side by side near the bed; and the young doctor involuntarilywatched them. Stephen had taken her hand in his with that silentsympathy which was so natural and so eloquent. He said nothing, this big, sun-tanned youth; he did not even glance down at hissister, who stood small, soft-eyed, and gentle at his side. 

The doctor knew something of the history of the small family thusmomentarily united, and he had always feared that if Stephen Leachdid return it would only kill his mother. This, indeed, seemed tobe the result about to follow. 

Presently the doctor took his leave. He was a young man engaged ingetting together a good practice, and in his own interest he hadbeen forced to give up waiting for his patients to finish dying. 

"I am glad you are here, " he said to Stephen, who accompanied him tothe door. "It would not do for your sister to be alone; this may goon for a couple of days. "

It did not go on for a couple of days, but Mrs. Leach lived throughthat night in the same semi-comatose state. The two watchers sat inher room until supper-time, when they left their mother in charge ofa hired nurse, whose services Joyce had been forced to seek. 

After supper Stephen Leach seemed at last to find his tongue, and hetalked in his quiet, almost gentle voice, such as some big menpossess, not about himself or the past, but about Joyce and thefuture. In a deliberate business-like way, he proceeded toinvestigate the affairs of the dying woman and the prospects of herdaughter; in a word, he asserted his authority as a brother, andJoyce was relieved and happy to obey him. 

It is not in times of gaiety that friendships are formed, but insorrow or suspense. During that long evening this brother andsister suddenly became intimate, more so than months of prosperousintercourse could have made them. At ten o'clock Stephen quietlyinsisted that Joyce should go to bed while he lay down, all dressed, on the sofa in the dining-room. 

"I shall sleep perfectly; it is not the first time I have slept inmy clothes, " he said simply. 

They went upstairs together and told the nurse of this arrangement. Joyce remained for some moments by the bedside watching her mother'speaceful sleep, and when she turned she found that Stephen hadquietly slipped away. Wondering vaguely whether he hadintentionally solved her difficulty as to the fraternal good-night, she went to her own room. 

The next morning Mrs. Leach was fully conscious, and appeared to bestronger; nevertheless, she knew that the end was near. She calledher two children to her bedside, and, turning her blind eyes towardsthem, spoke in broken sentences. 

"I am ready now--I am ready, " she said. "Dears, I am going to yourfather--and. . . Thank God, I can tell him that I have left youtogether. I always knew Stephen would come back. I found itwritten everywhere in the Bible. Stephen--kiss me, dear!"

The man leant over the bed and kissed her. 

"Ah!" she sighed, "how I wish I could see you--just once before Idie. Joyce!" she added, suddenly turning to her daughter, who stoodat the other side of the bed, "tell me what he is like. But--I know. . I KNOW--I feel it. Listen! He is tall and spare, like hisfather. His hair is black, like--like his father's--it was blackbefore he went away. His eyes, I know, are dark--almost black. Heis pale--like a Spaniard!" . . . 

Joyce, looking across the bed with slow horror dawning in her face, looked into a pair of blue eyes beneath tawny hair, cut short as asoldier's hair should be. She looked upon a man big, broad, fair--English from crown to toe--and the quiet command of his lips andeyes made her say -

"Yes, mother, yes. "

For some moments there was silence. Joyce stood pale andbreathless, wondering what this might mean. Then the dying womanspoke again. 

"Kiss me, " she said. "I. . . Am going. Stephen first--myfirstborn! And now, Joyce. . . And now kiss each other--across thebed! I want to hear it. . . I want. . . To tell. . . Your. . . Father. "

With a last effort she raised her hands, seeking their heads. Atfirst Joyce hesitated, then she leant forward, and the old woman'schilled fingers pressed their lips together. That was the end. 

Half an hour afterwards Joyce and this man stood facing each otherin the little dining-room. He began his explanation at once. 

"Stephen, " he said, "was shot--out there--as a traitor. I could nottell her that! I did not mean to do this, but what else could Ido?"

He paused, moved towards the door with that same strange hesitationwhich she had noticed on his arrival. At the door he turned, tojustify himself. 

"I still think, " he said gravely, "that it was the best thing todo. "

Joyce made no answer. The tears stood in her eyes. There wassomething very pathetic in the distress of this strong man, facing, as it were, an emergency of which he felt the delicacy to be beyondhis cleverness to handle. 

"Last night, " he went on, "I made all the necessary arrangements foryour future just as Stephen would have made them--as a brother mighthave done. I. . . He and I were brother officers in a very wildarmy. Your brother--was not a good man. None of us were. " Hishand was on the door. "He asked me to come and tell you, " he added. "I shall go back now. . . . "

They stood thus: he watching her face with his honest soft blueeyes, she failing to meet his glance. 

"May I come back again?" he asked suddenly. 

She gave a little gasp, but made no answer. 

"I will come back in six months, " he announced quietly, and then heclosed the door behind him.