GEORGE BOWRING--A TALE OF CADER IDRIS

By R. D. Blackmore

From "SLAIN BY THE DOONES" by R. D. BlackmoreCopyright: Dodd, Mead And Company, 1895

CHAPTER I. 

When I was a young man, and full of spirits, some forty years ago ormore, I lost my best and truest friend in a very sad and mysterious way. The greater part of my life has been darkened by this heavy blow andloss, and the blame which I poured upon myself for my own share in thematter. 

George Bowring had been seven years with me at the fine old school ofShrewsbury, and trod on my heels from form to form so closely that, whenI became at last the captain of the school, he was second to me. I washis elder by half a year, and "sapped" very hard, while he labouredlittle; so that it will be plain at a glance, although he neveracknowledged it, that he was the better endowed of the two with naturalability. At that time we of Salop always expected to carry everything, so far as pure scholarship was concerned, at both the universities. Butnowadays I am grieved to see that schools of quite a different stamp(such as Rugby and Harrow, and even Marlborough, and worse of allpeddling Manchester) have been running our boys hard, and sometimesalmost beating them. And how have they done it? Why, by purchasingmasters of our prime rank and special style. 

George and myself were at one time likely, and pretty well relied upon, to keep up the fame of Sabrina's crown, and hold our own at Oxford. Butsuddenly it so fell out that both of us were cut short of classics, andflung into this unclassic world. In the course of our last half year atschool and when we were both taking final polish to stand for Balliolscholarships, which we were almost sure to win, as all the examinerswere Shrewsbury men, --not that they would be partial to us, but becausewe knew all their questions, --within a week, both George and I wereforced to leave the dear old school, the grand old town, the lovelySevern, and everything but one another. 

He lost his father; I lost my uncle, a gentleman in Derbyshire, who hadwell provided my education; but, having a family of his own, could notbe expected to leave me much. And he left me even less than could, fromhis own point of view, have been rational. It is true that he had sevenchildren; but still a man of, £15, 000 a year might have done, withoutinjustice--or, I might say, with better justice--something more thanto leave his nephew a sum which, after much pushing about into diversinsecurities, fetched £72 10s. Per annum. 

Nevertheless, I am truly grateful; though, perhaps, at the time I hadnot that knowledge of the world which enlarges the grateful organs. Itcannot matter what my feelings were, and I never was mercenary. All mysentiments at that period ran in Greek senarii; and perhaps it wouldshow how good and lofty boys were in that ancient time, though now theyare only rude Solecists, if I were to set these verses down--but, aftermuch consideration, I find it wiser to keep them in. 

George Bowring's father had some appointment well up in the Treasury. He seems to have been at some time knighted for finding a manuscript ofgreat value that went in the end to the paper mills. How he did it, orwhat it was, or whether he ever did it at all, were questions for noone to meddle with. People in those days had larger minds than theyever seem to exhibit now. The king might tap a man, and say, "Rise, SirJoseph, " and all the journals of the age, or, at least, the next day, would echo "Sir Joseph!" And really he was worthy of it. A knight helived, and a knight he died; and his widow found it such a comfort!

And now on his father's sudden death, George Bowring was left notso very well off. Sir Joseph had lived, as a knight should do, in afree-handed, errant, and chivalrous style; and what he left behindhim made it lucky that the title dropped. George, however, was betterplaced, as regards the world, than I was; but not so very much as tomake a difference between us. Having always held together, and beingstarted in life together, we resolved to face the world (as other peopleare always called) side by side, and with a friendship that should makeus as good as one. 

This, however, did not come out exactly as it should have done. Manythings arose between us--such as diverse occupation, different hours ofwork and food, and a little split in the taste of trowsers, which, ofcourse, should not have been. He liked the selvage down his legs, while I thought it unartistic, and, going much into the graphic line, Ipressed my objections strongly. 

But George, in the handsomest manner--as now, looking back on the case, I acknowledge--waived my objections, and insisted as little as he couldupon his own. 

And again we became as tolerant as any two men, at all alike, can be ofone another. 

He, by some postern of influence, got into some dry ditch of theTreasury, and there, as in an old castle-moat, began to be at home, andmove, gently and after his seniors, as the young ducks follow the oldones. And at every waddle he got more money. 

My fortune, however, was not so nice. I had not Sir Joseph, of Treasurycellars, to light me with his name and memory into a snug cell of myown. I had nothing to look to but courage, and youth, and education, andthree-quarters of a hundred pounds a year, with some little change togive out of it. Yet why should I have doubted? Now, I wonder at my ownmisgivings; yet all of them still return upon me, if I ever am persuadedjust to try Welsh rabbit. Enough, that I got on at last, to such anextent that the man at the dairy offered me half a year's milk for asketch of a cow that had never belonged to him. 

George, meanwhile, having something better than a brush for a walkingstick and an easel to sit down upon, had taken unto himself a wife--alady as sweet and bright as could be--by name Emily Atkinson. In truth, she was such a charming person that I myself, in a quiet way, had takena very great fancy to her before George Bowring saw her; but as soon asI found what a desperate state the heart of poor George was reduced to, and came to remember that he was fitted by money to marry, while I wasnot, it appeared to me my true duty toward the young lady and him, andeven myself, to withdraw from the field, and have nothing to say if theyset up their horses together. 

So George married Emily, and could not imagine why it was that I strovein vain to appear as his "best man, " at the rails where they do it. 

For though I had ordered a blue coat and buttons, and a cashmerewaistcoat (amber-coloured, with a braid of peonies), yet at the lastmoment my courage failed me, and I was caught with a shivering in theknees, which the doctor said was ague. This and that shyness of diningat his house (which I thought it expedient to adopt during the years ofhis married life) created some little reserve between us, thoughhardly so bad as our first disagreement concerning the stripe down thepantaloons. 

However, before that dereliction I had made my friend a wedding present, as was right and proper--a present such as nothing less than a gloriouswindfall could have enabled me to buy. For while engaged, some threeyears back, upon a grand historical painting of "Cour de Lion andSaladin, " now to be seen--but let that pass; posterity will always knowwhere to find it--I was harassed in mind perpetually concerning thegrain of the fur of a cat. To the dashing young artists of the presentday this may seem a trifle; to them, no doubt, a cat is a cat--or wouldbe, if they could make it one. Of course, there are cats enough inLondon, and sometimes even a few to spare; but I wanted a cat ofpeculiar order, and of a Saracenic cast. I walked miles and miles;till at last I found him residing in a very old-fashioned house in thePolygon, at Somers Town. Here was a genuine paradise of cats, carefullyministered to and guarded by a maiden lady of Portuguese birth and ofadvanced maturity. Each of these nine cats possessed his own stool--amahogany stool, with a velvet cushion, and his name embroidered upon itin beautiful letters of gold. And every day they sat round the fire todigest their dinners, all nine of them, each on his proper stool, some purring, some washing their faces, and some blinking or noddingdrowsily. But I need not have spoken of this, except that one ofthem was called "Saladin. " He was the very cat I wanted. I made hisacquaintance in the area, and followed it up on the knife-boy's board. And then I had the most happy privilege of saving him from a tail-pipe. Thus my entrance was secured into this feline Eden; and the lady wasso well pleased that she gave me an order for nine full-length catportraits, at the handsome price of ten guineas apiece. And not onlythis, but at her demise--which followed, alas! too speedily--she left me£150, as a proof of her esteem and affection. 

This sum I divided into three equal parts--fifty pounds for a presentfor George, another fifty for a duty to myself, and the residue to beput by for any future purposes. I knew that my friend had no gold watch;neither, of course, did I possess one. In those days a gold watchwas thought a good deal of, and made an impression in society, as athree-hundred-guinea ring does now. Barwise was then considered the bestwatchmaker in London, and perhaps in the world. So I went to his shop, and chose two gold watches of good size and substance--none of yourtrumpery catchpenny things, the size of a gilt pill trodden upon--at theprice of fifty guineas each. As I took the pair, the foreman let me havethem for a hundred pounds, including also in that figure a handsome goldkey for each, of exactly the same pattern, and a guard for the fob ofwatered black-silk ribbon. 

My reason for choosing these two watches, out of a trayful of similarquality, was perhaps a little whimsical--viz. , that the numbers theybore happened to be sequents. Each had its number engraved on its whiteenamel dial, in small but very clear figures, placed a little above thecentral spindle; also upon the extreme verge, at the nadir below theseconds hand, the name of the maker, "Barwise, London. " They were notwhat are called "hunting watches, " but had strong and very clear lunetteglasses fixed in rims of substantial gold. And their respective numberswere 7777 and 7778. 

Carrying these in wash-leather bags, I gave George Bowring his choiceof the two; and he chose the one with four figures of seven, making somelittle joke about it, not good enough to repeat, nor even bad enough tolaugh at. 

CHAPTER II. 

For six years after this all went smoothly with George Bowring andmyself. We met almost daily, although we did not lodge together (as oncewe had done) nor spend the evening hours together, because, of course, he had now his home and family rising around him. By the summer of 1832he had three children, and was expecting a fourth at no very distanttime. His eldest son was named after me, "Robert Bistre, " for such ismy name, which I have often thought of changing. Not that the name isat all a bad one, as among friends and relations, but that, when I amaddressed by strangers, "Mr. Bistre" has a jingling sound, suggestiveof childish levity. "Sir Robert Bistre, " however, would sound uncommonlywell; and (as some people say) less eminent artists--but perhaps, afterall, I am not so very old as to be in a hurry. 

In the summer of 1832--as elderly people will call to mind, and theyounger sort will have heard or read--the cholera broke over London likea bursting meteor. Such panic had not been known, I believe, since thetime of the plague, in the reign of Charles II. , as painted (beyond anyskill of the brush) by the simple and wonderful pen of Defoe. Therehad been in the interval many seasons--or at least I am informed so--ofsickness more widely spread, and of death more frequent, if not sosudden. But now this new plague, attacking so harshly a man's mostperceptive and valued part, drove rich people out of London faster thanhorses (not being attacked) could fly. Well, used as I was to a gooddeal of poison in dealing with my colours, I felt no alarm on my ownaccount, but was anxious about my landlady. This was an excellentlyhonest woman of fifty-five summers at the utmost, but weakly confessingto as much as forty. She had made a point of insisting upon a brisket ofbeef and a flat-polled cabbage for dinner every Saturday; and the same, with a "cowcumber, " cold on Sunday; and for supper a soft-roed herring, ever since her widowhood. 

"Mrs. Whitehead, " said I--for that was her name, though she said she didnot deserve it; and her hair confirmed her in that position by growingdarker from year to year--"Madam, allow me to beg you to vary your dieta little at this sad time. "

"I varies it every day, Mr. Bistre, " she answered somewhat snappishly. "The days of the week is not so many but what they all come roundagain. "

For the moment I did not quite perceive the precision of her argument;but after her death I was able to do more justice to her intellect. And, unhappily, she was removed to a better world on the following Sunday. 

To a man in London of quiet habits and regular ways and periods therescarcely can be a more desperate blow than the loss of his landlady. It is not only that his conscience pricks him for all his narrow, plagiaristic, and even irrational suspicions about the low level of histea caddy, or a neap tide in his brandy bottle, or any false evidence ofthe eyes (which ever go spying to lock up the heart), or the ears, whichare also wicked organs--these memories truly are grievous to him, andmake him yearn now to be robbed again; but what he feels most sadly isthe desolation of having nobody who understands his locks. One of thebest men I ever knew was so plagued with his sideboard everyday for two years, after dinner, that he married a little newmaid-of-all-work--because she was a blacksmith's daughter. 

Nothing of that sort, however, occurred in my case, I am proud to say. But finding myself in a helpless state, without anyone to be afraidof, I had only two courses before me: either to go back to my formerlandlady (who was almost too much of a Tartar, perhaps), or else to runaway from my rooms till Providence provided a new landlady. 

Now, in this dilemma I met George Bowring, who saw my distress, and mostkindly pressed me to stay at his house till some female arose to managemy affairs for me. This, of course, I declined to do, especially underpresent circumstances; and, with mutual pity, we parted. But the verynext day he sought me out, in a quiet nook where a few good artists wereaccustomed to meet and think; and there he told me that really now hesaw his way to cut short my troubles as well as his own, and to earn apiece of enjoyment and profit for both of us. And I happen to rememberhis very words. 

"You are cramped in your hand, my dear fellow, " said he (for in thosedays youths did not call each other "old man"--with sad sense of theirown decrepitude). "Bob, you are losing your freedom of touch. You mustcome out of these stony holes, and look at a rocky mountain. "

My heart gave a jump at these words; and yet I had been too much laidflat by facts--"sat upon, " is the slang of these last twenty years, andin the present dearth of invention must serve, no doubt, for anothertwenty--I say that I had been used as a cushion by so many landladiesand maids-of-all-work (who take not an hour to find out where they needdo no work), that I could not fetch my breath to think of ever going upa mountain. 

"I will leave you to think of it, Bob, " said George, putting his haton carefully; "I am bound for time, and you seem to be nervous. Consultyour pillow, my dear fellow; and peep into your old stocking: and seewhether you can afford it. "

That last hit settled me. People said, in spite of all my generousacts--and nobody knows, except myself, the frequency and the extent ofthese--without understanding the merits of the case--perfect (or ratherimperfect) strangers said that I was stingy! To prove the contrary, Iresolved to launch into great expenditure, and to pay coach fare all theway from London toward the nearest mountain. 

Half the inhabitants now were rushing helter-skelter out of London, andvery often to seaside towns where the smell of fish destroyed them. Andthose who could not get away were shuddering at the blinds drawn down, and huddling away from the mutes at the doors, and turning pale at thefuneral bells. And some, who had never thought twice before of theirlatter end, now began to dwell with so much unction upon it, thatProvidence graciously spared them the waste of perpetual preparation. 

Among the rest, George Bowring had been scared, far more than he likedto own, by the sudden death of his butcher, between half a dozen chopsfor cutlets and the trimming of a wing-bone. George's own cook had gonedown with the order, and meant to bring it all back herself, becauseshe knew what butchers do when left to consider their subject. And Mrs. Tompkins was so alarmed that she gave only six hours' notice to leave, though her husband was far on the salt-sea wave, according to her ownaccount, and she had none to make her welcome except her father's secondwife. This broke up the household; and hence it was that George temptedme so with the mountains. 

For he took his wife and children to an old manor-house in Berkshire, belonging to two maiden aunts of the lady, who promised to see to allthat might happen, but wanted no gentleman in the house at a period ofsuch delicacy. George Bowring, therefore, agreed to meet me on the 12thday of September, at the inn in Reading--I forget its name--where theRegulator coach (belonging to the old company, and leaving White HorseCellars at half-past nine in the morning) allowed an hour to dine, fromone o'clock onward, as the roads might be. And here I found him, andwe supped at Oxford, and did very well at the Mitre. On the followingmorning we took coach for Shrewsbury, as we had agreed, and, reachingthe town before dark, put up at the Talbot Inn, and sauntered into thedear old school, to see what the lads had been at since our time; fortheir names and their exploits, at Oxford and Cambridge, are scored inlarge letters upon the panels, from the year 1806 and onward, so thatsoon there will be no place to register any more of them; and we foundthat though we ourselves had done nothing, many fine fellows had beeninstituted in letters of higher humanity, and were holding up the oldstandard, so that we longed to invite them to dinner. But disciplinemust be maintained; and that word means, more than anything else, thedifference of men's ages. 

Now, at Shrewsbury, we had resolved to cast off all further heed ofcoaches; and knowing the country pretty well, or recalling it from ourchildhood, to strike away on foot for some of the mountain wildernesses. 

Of these, in those days, nobody knew much more than that they were highand steep, and slippery and dangerous, and much to be shunned by allsensible people who liked a nice fire and the right side of the window. So that when we shouldered staves with knapsacks flapping heavily, allthe wiser sort looked on us as marching off to Bedlam. 

In the morning, as we were starting, we set our watches by the oldschool dial, as I have cause to remember well. And we staked half acrown, in a sporting manner, each on his own watch to be the truer bysun upon our way back again. And thus; we left those ancient walls andthe glancing of the river, and stoutly took the Welshpool road, dreadingnought except starvation. 

Although in those days I was not by any means a cripple, George was farstronger of arm and leg, having always been famous, though we madeno fuss about such things then, for running and jumping, and liftingweights, and using the boxing-gloves and the foils. A fine, brave fellowas ever lived, with a short, straight nose and a resolute chin, hetouched the measuring-bar quite fairly at seventy-four inches, andturned the scales at fourteen stone and a quarter. And so, as mychattels weighed more than his (by means of a rough old easel andmaterial for rude sketches), he did me a good turn now and then bychanging packs for a mile or two. And thus we came in four days' marchto Aber-Aydyr, a village lying under Cader Idris. 

CHAPTER III. 

If any place ever lay out of the world, and was proud of itself fordoing so, this little village of Aber-Aydyr must have been very near it. The village was built, as the people expressed it, of thirty cottages, one public-house, one shop universal, and two chapels. The torrent ofthe Aydyr entered with a roar of rapids, and at the lower end departedin a thunder of cascades. The natives were all so accustomed to live inthe thick of this watery uproar that, whenever they left their belovedvillage to see the inferior outer world, they found themselves as deafas posts till they came to a weir or a waterfall. And they told us thatin the scorching summer of the year 1826 the river had failed them sothat for nearly a month they could only discourse by signs; and theyused to stand on the bridge and point at the shrunken rapids, andstop their ears to exclude that horrible emptiness. Till a violentthunderstorm broke up the drought, and the river came down roaring; andthe next day all Aber-Aydyr was able to gossip again as usual. 

Finding these people, who lived altogether upon slate, of a quaint andoriginal turn, George Bowring and I resolved to halt and rest the solesof our feet a little, and sketch and fish the neighbourhood. For Georgehad brought his rod and tackle, and many a time had he wanted co stopand set up his rod and begin to cast; but I said that I would not becheated so: he had promised me a mountain, and would he put me off witha river? Here, however, we had both delights; the river for him and themountain for me. As for the fishing, all that he might have, and I wouldgrudge him none of it, if he fairly divided whatever he caught. Buthe must not expect me to follow him always and watch all his daintymanoeuvring; each was to carry and eat his own dinner, whenever we madea day of it, so that he might keep to his flies and his water, whileI worked away with my brush at the mountains. And thus we spent a mostpleasant week, though we knew very little of Welsh and the slaters spokebut little English. But--much as they are maligned because they willnot have strangers to work with them--we found them a thoroughly civil, obliging, and rather intelligent set of men; most of them also of arespectable and religious turn of mind; and they scarcely ever poach, except on Saturdays and Mondays. 

On September 25, as we sat at breakfast in the little sanded parlour ofthe Cross-Pipes public house, our bedroom being overhead, my dear friendcomplained to me that he was tired of fishing so long up and downone valley, and asked me to come with him further up, into wilder androckier districts, where the water ran deeper (as he had been told) andthe trout were less worried by quarrymen, because it was such a savageplace, deserted by all except evil spirits, that even the Aber-Aydyrslaters could not enjoy the fishing there. I promised him gladly tocome, only keeping the old understanding between us, that each shouldattend to his own pursuits and his own opportunities mainly; so thatGeorge might stir most when the trout rose well, and I when the shadowsfell properly. And thus we set forth about nine o'clock of a bright andcheerful morning, while the sun, like a courtly perruquier of the reignof George II. , was lifting, and shifting, and setting in order thevapoury curls of the mountains. 

We trudged along thus at a merry swing, for the freshness of autumnaldew was sparkling in the valley, until we came to a rocky pass, wherewalking turned to clambering. After an hour of sharpish work amongslaty shelves and threatening crags, we got into one of those troughlikehollows hung on each side with precipices, which look as if the earthhad sunk for the sake of letting the water through. On our left hand, cliff towered over cliff to the grand height of Pen y Cader, thesteepest and most formidable aspect of the mountain. Rock piled on rock, and shingle cast in naked waste disdainfully, and slippery channelsscooped by torrents of tempestuous waters, forbade one to desire at allto have anything more to do with them--except, of course, to get thempainted at a proper distance, so that they might hang at last in thedining rooms of London, to give people appetite with sense of hungrybreezes, and to make them comfortable with the sight of danger. 

"This is very grand indeed, " said George, as he turned to watch me; forthe worst part of our business is to have to give an opinion always uponpoints of scenery. But I am glad that I was not cross, or even crispwith him that day. 

"It is magnificent, " I answered; "and I see a piece of soft sward there, where you can set up your rod, old fellow, while I get my sticks intrim. Let us fill our pipes and watch the shadows; they do not fallquite to suit me yet. "

"How these things make one think, " cried Bowring, as we sat on a stoneand smoked, "of the miserable littleness of men like you and me, Bob!"

"Speak for yourself, sir, " I said, laughing at his unaccustomed, but byno means novel, reflection. "I am quite contented with my size, althoughI am smaller than you, George. Dissatisfied mortal! Nature wants noincrease of us, or she would have had it. "

"In another world we shall be much larger, " he said, with his eyes onthe tops of the hills. "Last night I dreamed that my wife and childrenwere running to meet me in heaven, Bob. "

"Tush! You go and catch fish, " I replied; for tears were in his large, soft eyes, and I hated the sentimental. "Would they ever let such alittle Turk as Bob Bistre into heaven, do you think? My godson wouldshout all the angels deaf and outdrum all the cherubim. "

"Poor little chap! He is very noisy; but he is not half a bad sort, "said George. "If he only comes like his godfather I shall wish no betterluck for him. "

These were kind words, and I shook his hand to let him know that I feltthem; and then, as if he were ashamed of having talked rather weakly, he took with his strong legs a dangerous leap of some ten or twelve feetdownward, and landed on a narrow ledge that overhung the river. Here heput his rod together, and I heard the click of reel as he drew the loopat the end of the line through the rings, and so on; and I heard him cry"Chut!" as he took his flies from his Scotch cap and found a tangle; andI saw the glistening of his rod, as the sunshine pierced the valley, andthen his tall, straight figure pass the corner of a crag that stood asupright as a tombstone; and after that no more of any live and brightGeorge Bowring. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Swift is the flight of Time whenever a man would fain lay hold of him. All created beings, from Behemoth to a butterfly, dread and fly (as bestthey may) that universal butcher--man. And as nothing is more carefullykilled by the upper sort of mankind than Time, how can he help makingoff for his life when anybody wants to catch him?

Of course, I am not of that upper sort, and make no pretence to be so;but Time, perhaps, may be excused for thinking--having had such a veryshort turn at my clothes--that I belonged to the aristocracy. At anyrate, while I drew, and rubbed, and dubbed, and made hieroglyphics, Timewas. Uneasily shifting and shuffling the lines of the hills, as a feverpatient jerks and works the bed-clothes. And, worse than that, he wasscurrying westward (frightened, no doubt, by the equinox) at such a pacethat I was scared by the huddling together of shadows. Awaking from along, long dream--through which I had been working hard, and laying thefoundations of a thousand pounds hereafter--I felt the invisible damp ofevening settling in the valleys. The sun, from over the sea, had stillhis hand on Cader Idris; but every inferior head and height was gray inthe sweep of his mantle. 

I threw my hair back--for an artist really should be picturesque; and, having no other beauty, must be firm to long hair, while it lasts--andthen I shouted, "George!" until the strata of the mountain (whichdip and jag, like veins of oak) began and sluggishly prolonged a slowzig-zag of echoes. No counter-echo came to me; no ring of any sonorousvoice made crag, and precipice, and mountain vocal with the sound of"Bob!"

"He must have gone back. What a fool I must be never to remember seeinghim! He saw that I was full of rubbish, and he would not disturb me. Heis gone back to the Cross-Pipes, no doubt And yet it does not seem likehim. "

"To look for a pin in a bundle of hay" would be a job of sense andwisdom rather than to seek a thing so very small as a very big man amongthe depth, and height, and breadth of river, shingle, stone, and rock, crag, precipice, and mountain. And so I doubled up my things, while thevery noise they made in doubling flurried and alarmed me; and I thoughtit was not like George to leave me to find my way back all alone, amongthe deep bogs, and the whirlpools, and the trackless tracts of crag. 

When I had got my fardel ready, and was about to shoulder it, the soundof brisk, short steps, set sharply upon doubtful footing, struck my ear, through the roar of the banks and stones that shook with waterfall. Andbefore I had time to ask, "Who goes there?"--as in this solitude onemight do--a slight, short man, whom I knew by sight as a workman ofAber-Aydyr, named Evan Peters, was close to me, and was swinging aslate-hammer in one hand, and bore in the other a five-foot staff. Heseemed to be amazed at sight of me, but touched his hat with his staff, and said: "Good-night, gentleman!" in Welsh; for the natives of thispart are very polite. "Good-night, Evan!" I answered, in his ownlanguage, of which I had picked up a little; and he looked well pleased, and said in his English: "For why, sir, did you leave your things inthat place there? A bad mans come and steal them, it is very likely. "

Then he wished me "Good-night" again, and was gone--for he seemed tobe in a dreadful hurry--before I had the sense to ask him what he meantabout "my things. " But as his footfall died away a sudden fear came overme. 

"The things he meant must be George Bowring's, " I said to myself; and Idropped my own, and set off, with my blood all tingling, for the placetoward which he had jerked his staff. How long it took me to force myway among rugged rocks and stubs of oak I cannot tell, for every momentwas an hour to me. But a streak of sunset glanced along the lonesomegorge, and cast my shadow further than my voice would go; and by it Isaw something long and slender against a scar of rock, and standingfar in front of me. Toward this I ran as fast as ever my trembling legswould carry me, for I knew too well that it must be the fishing-rod ofGeorge Bowring. 

It was stuck in the ground--not carelessly, nor even in any hurry; butas a sportsman makes all snug, when for a time he leaves off casting. For instance, the end fly was fixed in the lowest ring of the butt, andthe slack of the line reeled up so that the collar lay close to therod itself. Moreover, in such a rocky place, a bed to receive the spikecould not have been found without some searching. For a moment I wasreassured. Most likely George himself was near--perhaps in quest ofblueberries (which abound at the foot of the shingles-and are a verydelicious fruit), or of some rare fern to send his wife, who was oneof the first in England to take much notice of them. And it shows whatconfidence I had in my friend's activity and strength, that I neverfeared the likely chance of his falling-from some precipice. 

But just as I began, with some impatience--for we were to have dined atthe Cross-Pipes about sundown, five good (or very bad) miles away, anda brace of ducks-was the order--just as I began to shout, "George!Wherever have you got to?" leaping on a little rock, I saw a thing thatstopped me. At the further side of this rock, and below my feet, was afishing basket, and a half-pint mug nearly full of beer, and a crust ofthe brown, sweet bread of the hills, and a young white onion, half cutthrough, and a clasp-knife open, and a screw of salt, and a slice of thecheese, just dashed with goat's milk, which George was so fond of, butI disliked; and there may have been a hard-boiled egg. At the sight ofthese things all my blood rushed to my head in such a manner that all mypower to think was gone. I sat down on the rock where George must havesat while beginning his frugal luncheon, and I put my heels into themarks of his, and, without knowing why, I began to sob like a child whohas lost his mother. What train of reasoning went through my brain--ifany passed in the obscurity--let metaphysicians or psychologists, as they call themselves, pretend to know. I only know that I kept onwhispering, "George is dead! Unless he had been killed, he never wouldhave left his beer so!"

I must have sat, making a fool of myself, a considerable time in thisway, thinking of George's poor wife and children, and wondering whatwould become of them, instead of setting to work at once to know whatwas become of him. I took up a piece of cheese-rind, showing a perfectimpression of his fine front teeth, and I put it in my pocketbook, asthe last thing he had touched. And then I examined the place-all aroundand knelt to look for footmarks, though the light was sadly waning. 

For the moment I discovered nothing of footsteps or other traces tofrighten or to comfort me. A little narrow channel (all of rock andstone and slaty stuff) sloped to the river's brink, which was not morethan: five yards distant In this channel I saw no mark except that someof the smaller stones appeared to have been turned over; and then Ilooked into the river itself, and saw a force of water sliding smoothlyinto a rocky pool. 

"If he had fallen in there, " I said, "he would have leaped out again intwo seconds; or even if the force of the water had carried him down intothat deep pool, he can swim like a duck--of course he can. What rivercould ever drown you, George?"

And then I remembered how at Salop he used to swim the flooded Severnwhen most of us feared to approach the banks; and I knew that he couldnot be drowned, unless something first had stunned him. And after that Ilooked around, and my heart was full of terror. 

"It is a murder!" I cried aloud, though my voice among the rocks mightwell have brought like fate upon me. "As sure as I stand here, and Godis looking down upon me, this is a black murder!" In what way I got backthat night to Aber-Aydyr I know not. All I remember is that thepeople would not come out of their houses to me, according to somesuperstition, which was not explained till morning; and, being unableto go to bed, I took a blanket and lay down beneath a dry arch of thebridge, and the Aydyr, as swiftly as a spectre gliding, hushed me with amelancholy song. 

CHAPTER V. 

Now, as sure as ever I lay beneath the third arch of Aber-Aydyr Bridge, in a blanket of Welsh serge or flannel, with a double border, so surelydid I see, and not dream, what I am going to tell you. 

The river ran from east to west; and the moon, being now the harvestmoon, was not very high, but large and full, and just gliding over thecrest of the hill that overhangs the quarry-pit; so that, if I can putit plainly, the moon was across the river from me, and striking theturbulent water athwart, so that her face, or a glimmer thereof, musthave been lying upon the river if any smooth place had been left for it. But of this there was no chance, because the whole of the river was ina rush, according to its habit, and covered with bubbles, and froth, andfurrows, even where it did not splash, and spout, and leap, as it lovedto do. In the depth of the night, when even the roar of the water seemeddrowsy and indolent, and the calm trees stooped with their heavy limbsover-changing the darkness languidly, and only a few rays of the moon, like the fluttering of a silver bird, moved in and out the mesh-work, Ileaned upon, my elbow, and I saw the dead George Bowring. 

He came from the pit of the river toward me, quietly and without strideor step, gliding over the water like a mist or the vapour of a calmwhite frost; and he stopped at the ripple where the shore began, and helooked at me very peacefully. And I felt neither fear nor doubt of him, any more than I do of this pen in my hand. 

"George, " I said, "I have been uneasy all the day about you and I cannotsleep, and I have had no comfort. What has made you treat me so?"

He seemed to be anxious to explain, having always been sostraightforward; but an unknown hand or the power of death held him, sothat he could only smile. And then it appeared to me as if he pointedto the water first and then to the sky, with such an import that Iunderstood (as plainly as if he had pronounced it) that his body layunder the one and his soul was soaring on high through the other; and, being forbidden to speak, he spread his hands, as if entrusting me withall that had belonged to him; and then he smiled once more, and fadedinto the whiteness of the froth and foam. 

And then I knew that I had been holding converse, face to face, withDeath; and icy fear shpok me, and I strove in vain to hide my eyes fromeverything. And when I awoke in the morning there was a gray trunk of analder tree, just George Bowring's height and size, on the other side ofthe water, so that I could have no doubt that himself had been there. 

After a search of about three hours we found the body of my dear friendin a deep black pool of the Aydyr--not the first hole below the placein which he sat down to his luncheon, but nearly a hundred yards fartherdown, where a bold cliff jutted out and bent the water scornfully. Ourquarrymen would not search this pool until the sunlight fell on it, because it was a place of dread with a legend hovering over it. "TheGiant's Tombstone" was the name of the crag that overhung it; and thestory was that the giant Idris, when he grew worn out with age, chosethis rock out of many others near the top of the mountain, and laid itunder his arm and came down here to drink of the Aydyr. He drank theAydyr dry because he was feverish and flushed with age; and he set downthe crag in a hole he had scooped with the palms of his hands for morewater; and then he lay down on his back, and Death (who never couldreach to his knee when he stood) took advantage of his posture to drivehome the javelin. And thus he lay dead, with the crag for his headstone, and the weight of his corpse sank a grave for itself in the channel ofthe river, and the toes of his boots are still to be seen after lessthan a mile of the valley. 

Under this headstone of Idris lay the body of George Bowring, fair andcomely, with the clothes all perfect, and even the light cap still onthe head. And as we laid it upon the grass, reverently and carefully, the face, although it could smile no more, still appeared to wear asmile, as if the new world were its home, and death a mere trouble leftfar behind. Even the eyes were open, and their expression was not offright or pain, but pleasant and bright, with a look of interest such asa man pays to his food. 

"Stand back, all of you!" I said sternly; "none shall examine him butmyself. Now all of you note what I find here. "

I searched all his pockets, one after another; and tears came to my eyesagain as I counted not less than eleven of them, for I thought of thefuss we used to make with the Shrewsbury tailor about them. There wassomething in every pocket, but nothing of any importance at present, except his purse and a letter from his wife, for which he had walked toDolgelly and back on the last entire day of his life. 

"It is a hopeless mystery!" I exclaimed aloud, as the Welshmen gazedwith superstitious awe and doubt. "He is dead as if struck by lightning, but there was no storm in the valley!"

"No, no, sure enough; no storm was there. But it is plain to see whathas killed him!" This was Evan Peters, the quarryman, and I glanced athim very suspiciously. "Iss, sure, plain enough, " said another; and thenthey all broke into Welsh, with much gesticulation; and "e-ah, e-ah, "and "otty, otty, " and "hanool, hanool, " were the sounds they made--atleast to an ignorant English ear. 

"What do you mean, you fools?" I asked, being vexed at their offhand wayof settling things so far beyond them. "Can you pretend to say what itwas?"

"Indeed, then, and indeed, my gentleman, it is no use to talk no more. It was the Caroline Morgan. "

"Which is the nearest house?" I asked, for I saw that some of them werealready girding up their loins to fly, at the mere sound of that fearfulname; for the cholera morbus had scared the whole country; and if onewere to fly, all the rest would follow, as swiftly as mountain sheepgo. "Be quick to the nearest house, my friends, and we will send for thedoctor. "

This was a lucky hit; for these Cambrians never believed in anyone'sdeath until he had "taken the doctor. " And so, with much courage andkindness, "to give the poor gentleman the last chance, " they made a rudelitter, and, bearing the body upon sturdy shoulders, betook themselvesto a track which I had overlooked entirely. Some people have all theirwits about them as soon as they are called for, but with me it is mainlyotherwise. And this I had shown in two things already; the first ofwhich came to my mind the moment I pulled out my watch to see what thetime was. "Good Heavens!" it struck me, "where is George's watch? It wasnot in any of his pockets; and I did not feel it in his fob. "

In an instant I made them set down the bier; and, much as it grieved meto do such a thing, I carefully sought for my dear friend's watch. Nowatch, no seals, no ribbon, was there! "Go on, " I said; and I fell behindthem, having much to think about. In this condition, I took little heedof the distance, or of the ground itself; being even astonished when, atlast, we stopped; as if we were bound to go on forever. 

CHAPTER VI. 

We had stopped at the gate of an old farmhouse, built with massiveboulder stones, laid dry, and flushed in with mortar. As dreary a placeas was ever seen; at the head of a narrow mountain-gorge, with mountainstowering over it. There was no sign of life about it, except that agaunt hog trotted forth, and grunted at us, and showed his tusks, andwould perhaps have charged us, if we had not been so many. The houselooked just like a low church-tower, and might have been taken for oneat a distance if there had been any battlements. It seemed to be four orfive hundred years old, and perhaps belonged to some petty chief in thedays of Owen Glendower. 

"Knock again, Thomas Edwards. Stop, let me knock, " said one of our partyimpatiently. "There, waddow, waddow, waddow!"

Suiting the action to the word, he thumped with a big stone heavily, till a middle-aged woman, with rough black hair, looked out of a windowand screamed in Welsh to ask what this terrible noise was. To this theymade answer in the same language, pointing to their sad burden, andasking permission to leave it for the doctor's inspection and theinquest, if there was to be one. And I told them to add that I wouldpay well--anything, whatever she might like to ask. But she screamed outsomething that sounded like a curse, and closed the lattice violently. Knowing that many superstitions lingered in these mountains--as, indeed, they do elsewhere plentifully--I was not surprised at the woman's sternrefusal to admit us, especially at this time of pest; but I thought itstrange that her fierce black eyes avoided both me and the poor rudelitter on which the body of George lay, covered with some slate-workers'aprons. 

"She is not the mistress!" cried Evan Peters, in great excitement, as Ithought. "Ask where is Hopkin--Black Hopkin--where is he?"

At this suggestion a general outcry arose in Welsh for "Black Hopkin";an outcry so loud and prolonged that the woman opened the window againand screamed--as they told me afterward--"He is not at home, you noisyfools; he is gone to Machynlleth. Not long would you dare to make thisnoise if Hopkin ap Howel was at home. "

But while she was speaking the wicket-door of the great arched gate wasthrown open, and a gun about six feet long and of very large bore waspresented at us. The quarrymen drew aside briskly, and I was about tomove somewhat hastily, when the great, swarthy man who was holding thegun withdrew it, and lifted his hat to me, proudly and as an equal. 

"You cannot enter this house, " he said in very good English, and by nomeans rudely. "I am sorry for it, but it cannot be. My little daughteris very ill, the last of seven. You must go elsewhere. "

With these words he bowed again to me, while his sad eyes seemed topierce my soul; and then he quietly closed the wicket and fastened itwith a heavy bolt, and I knew that we must indeed go further. 

This was no easy thing to do; for our useless walk to "Crug y Dlwlith"(the Dewless Hills), as this farm was called, had taken us further atevery step from the place we must strive for after all--the good littleAber-Aydyr. The gallant quarrymen were now growing both weary anduneasy; and in justice to them I must say that no temptation of money, nor even any appeal to their sympathies, but only a challenge of theirpatriotism held them to the sad duties owing from the living to thedead. But knowing how proud all Welshmen are of the fame of their raceand country, happily I exclaimed at last, when fear was getting themastery, "What will be said of this in England, this low cowardice ofthe Cymro?" Upon that they looked at one another and did their bestright gallantly. 

Now, I need not go into any further sad details of this most sad time, except to say that Dr. Jones, who came the next day from Dolgelly, madea brief examination by order of the coroner. Of course, he had too muchsense to suppose that the case was one of cholera; but to my sur-prisehe pronounced that death was the result of "asphyxia, caused by toolong immersion in the water. " And knowing nothing of George Bowring'sactivity, vigour, and cultivated power in the water, perhaps he was notto be blamed for dreaming that a little mountain stream could drownhim. I, on the other hand, felt as sure that my dear friend was foullymurdered as I did that I should meet him in heaven--if I lived well forthe rest of my life, which I resolved at once to do--and there have thewhole thing explained, and perhaps be permitted to glance at the man whodid it, as Lazarus did at Dives. 

In spite of the doctor's evidence and the coroner's own persuasion, thejury found that "George Bowring died of the Caroline Morgan"--which theclerk corrected to cholera morbus--"brought on by wetting his feet andeating too many fish of his own catching. " And so you may see itentered now in the records of the court of the coroners of the king forMerioneth. 

And now I was occupied with a trouble, which, after all, was more urgentthan the enquiry how it came to pass. When a man is dead, it mustbe taken as a done thing, not to be undone; and, happily, all nearrelatives are inclined to see it in that light. They are grieved, ofcourse, and they put on hatbands and give no dinner parties; and theyeven think of their latter ends more than they might have desired to do. But after a little while all comes round. Such things must be happeningalways, and it seems so unchristian to repine; and if any money has beenleft them, truly they must attend to it. On the other hand, if there hasbeen no money, they scarcely see why they should mourn for nothing; and, as a duty, they begin to allow themselves to be roused up. 

But when a wife becomes a widow, it is wholly different. No money canever make up to her the utter loss of the love-time and theloneliness of the remaining years; the little turns, and thoughts, andtouches--wherever she goes and whatever she does--which at every cornermeet her with a deep, perpetual want. She tries to fetch her spirit upand to think of her duties to all around--to her children, or to theguests whom trouble forces upon her for business' sake, or even thefriends who call to comfort (though the call can fetch her none); butall the while how deeply aches her sense that all these duties are asdifferent as a thing can be from her love-work to her husband!

What could I do? I had heard from George, but could not for my liferemember, the name of that old house in Berkshire where poor Mrs. Bowring was on a visit to two of her aunts, as I said before. Iventured to open her letter to her husband, found in his left-hand sidebreastpocket, and, having dried it, endeavoured only to make out whenceshe wrote; but there was nothing. Ladies scarcely ever date a letterboth with time and place, for they seem to think that everybody mustknow it, because they do. So the best I could do was to write to poorGeorge's house in London, and beg that the letter might be forwarded atonce. It came, however, too late to hand. For, although the newspapersof that time were respectably slow and steady, compared with the rushthey all make nowadays, they generally managed to outrun the post, especially in the nutting season. They told me at Dolgelly, and theyconfirmed it at Machynlleth, that nobody must desire to get his lettersat any particular time, in the months of September and October, when thenuts were ripe. For the postmen never would come along until they hadfilled their bags with nuts, for the pleasure of their families. And Idare say they do the same thing now, but without being free to declareit so. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The body of my dear friend was borne round the mountain slopes toDolgelly and buried there, with no relative near, nor any mourner exceptmyself; for his wife, or rather his widow, was taken with sudden illness(as might be expected), and for weeks it was doubtful whether she wouldstay behind to mourn for him. But youth and strength at last restoredher to dreary duties and worldly troubles. 

Of the latter, a great part fell on me; and I did my best--though youmight not think so, after the fuss I made of my own--to intercept allthat I could, and quit myself manfully of the trust which George hadreturned from the dead to enjoin. And, what with one thing and another, and a sudden dearth of money which fell on me (when my cat-fund was allspent, and my gold watch gone up a gargoyle), I had such a job to feedthe living that I never was able to follow up the dead. 

The magistrates held some enquiry, of course, and I had to give myevidence; but nothing came of it, except that the quarryman, EvanPeters, clearly proved his innocence. Being a very clever fellow, anddabbling a bit in geology, he had taken his hammer up the mountains, ashis practice was when he could spare the time, to seek for new veins ofslate, or lead, or even gold, which is said to be there. He was able toshow that he had been at Tal y Llyn at the time of day when George wouldbe having his luncheon; and the people who knew Evan Peters were muchmore inclined to suspect me than him. But why should they suspectanybody, when anyone but a fool could see "how plain it was of thecholera?"

Twenty years slipped by (like a rope paid out on the seashore, "handover hand, " chafing as it goes, but gone as soon as one looks after it), and my hair was gray, and my fame was growing (slowly, as it appearedto me, but as all my friends said "rapidly"; as if I could never haveearned it!) when the mystery of George Bowring's death was solvedwithout an effort. 

I had been so taken up with the three dear children, and working forthem as hard as if they were my own (for the treasury of our Britishempire was bankrupt to these little ones--"no provision had been madefor such a case, " and so we had to make it)--I say that these childrenhad grown to me and I to them in such degree that they all of themcalled me "Uncle!"

This is the most endearing word that one human being can use to another. A fellow is certain to fight with his brothers and sisters, his father, and perhaps even his mother. Tenfold thus with his wife; but whoever didfight with his uncle? Of course I mean unless he was his heir. And thetenderness of this relation has not escaped _vox populi_, that keendiscriminator. 

Who is the most reliable, cordial, indispensable of mankind--especiallyto artists--in every sense of the word the dearest? A pawnbroker; he isour uncle. 

Under my care, these three children grew to be splendid "members ofsociety. " They used to come and kick over my easel with legs that werequite Titanic; and I could not scold them when I thought of George. Bob Bistre, the eldest, was my apprentice, and must become famous inconsequence; and when he was twenty-five years old, and money becameno object to me (through the purchase by a great art critic of the veryworst picture I ever painted; half of it, in fact, was Bob's!), I gavethe boy choice of our autumn trip to California, or the antipodes. 

"I would rather go to North Wales, dear uncle, " he answered, and thendropped his eyes, as his father used when he had provoked me. Thatsettled the matter. He must have his way; though as for myself, I mustconfess that I have begun, for a long time now, upon principle, to shunmelancholy. 

The whole of the district is opened up so by those desperate railwaysthat we positively dined at the Cross-Pipes Hotel the very day after weleft Euston Square. Our landlady did not remember me, which was anythingbut flattering. But she jumped at Bob as if she would have kissed him;for he was the image of his father, whose handsome face had charmed her. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Aydyr was making as much noise as ever, for the summer had been awet one; and of course all the people of Aber-Aydyr had their ears wideopen. I showed Bob the bridge and the place of my vision, but did notexplain its meaning, lest my love for him should seem fiduciary; andthe next morning, at his most urgent request, we started afoot for thatdark, sad valley. It was a long walk, and I did not find that twentyyears had shortened it. 

"Here we are at last, " I said, "and the place looks the same as ever. There is the grand old Pen y cada, with the white cloud rolling asusual; to the left and right are the two other summits, the arms ofthe chair of Idris; and over the shoulder of that crag you can catch aglassy light in the air--that is the reflection of Tal y Llyn. "

"Yes, yes!" he answered impatiently. "I know all that from your picture, uncle. But show me the place where my father died. "

"It lies immediately under our feet. You see that gray stone down in thehollow, a few yards from the river brink. There he sat, as I have oftentold you, twenty years ago this day. There he was taking his food, whensomeone---- Well, well! God knows, but we never shall. My boy, I amstiff in the knees; go on. "

He went on alone, as I wished him to do, with exactly his father'sstep, and glance, figure, face, and stature. Even his dress was of thesilver-gray which his father had been so fond of, and which the kindyoung fellow chose to please his widowed mother. I could almost believe(as a cloudy mantle stole in long folds over the highland, reproducingthe lights, and shades, and gloom of that mysterious day) that thetwenty years were all a dream, and that here was poor George Bowringgoing to his murder and his watery grave. 

My nerves are good and strong, I trow; and that much must have long beenevident. But I did not know what young Bob's might be, and therefore Ileft him to himself. No man should be watched as he stands at the graveof his wife or mother: neither should a young fellow who sits on thespot where his father was murdered. Therefore, as soon as our Bob haddescended into the gray stone-pit, in which his dear father must havebreathed his last, I took good care to be out of sight, after observingthat he sat down exactly as his father must have sat, except that hisattitude, of course, was sad, and his face pale and reproachful. Then, leaving the poor young fellow to his thoughts, I also sat down tocollect myself. 

But before I had time to do more than wonder at the mysterious ways ofthe world, or of Providence in guiding it; at the manner in which greatwrong lies hidden, and great woe falls unrecompensed; at the dark, uncertain laws which cover (like an indiscriminate mountain cloud)the good and the bad, the kind and the cruel, the murdered and themurderer--a loud shriek rang through the rocky ravine, and up the darkfolds of the mountain. 

I started with terror, and rushed forward, and heard myself called, andsaw young Bowring leap up, and stand erect and firm, although with agesture of horror. At his feet lay the body of a man struck dead, flungon its back, with great hands spread on the eyes, and white hair overthem. 

No need to ask what it meant. At last the justice of God was manifest. The murderer lay, a rigid corpse, before the son of the murdered. 

"Did you strike him?" I asked. 

"Is it likely, " said the youth, "that I would strike an aged man likethat? I assure you I never had such a fright in my life. This poor oldfellow came on me quite suddenly, from behind a rock, when all my mindwas full of my father; and his eyes met mine, and down he fell, as if Ihad shot him through the heart!"

"You have done no less, " I answered; and then I stooped over the corpse(as I had stooped over the corpse of its victim), and the whole of mystrength was required to draw the great knotted hands from the eyes, upon which they were cramped with a spasm not yet relaxed. 

"It is Hopkin ap Howel!" I cried, as the great eyes, glaring with thehorror of death, stood forth. "Black Hopkin once, white Hopkin now!Robert Bowring, you have slain the man who slew your father. "

"You know that I never meant to do it, " said Bob. "Surely, uncle, it washis own fault!"

"How did he come? I see no way. He was not here when I showed you theplace, or else we must have seen him. "

"He came round the corner of that rock, that stands in front of thefurze-bush. "

Now that we had the clue, a little examination showed the track. Behindthe furze-bush, a natural tunnel of rock, not more than a few yardslong, led into a narrow gorge covered with brushwood, and winding intothe valley below the farmhouse of the Dewless Crags. Thither we hurriedto obtain assistance, and there the whole mystery was explained. 

Black Hopkin (who stole behind George Bowring and stunned, or, perhaps, slew him with one vile blow) has this and this only to say at theBar--that he did it through love of his daughter. 

Gwenthlian, the last of seven, lay dying on the day when my friend andmyself came up the valley of the Aydyr. Her father, a man of enormouspower of will and passion, as well as muscle, rushed forth of the houselike a madman, when the doctor from Dolgelly told him that nothing moreremained except to await the good time of heaven. It was the same deadlydecline which had slain every one of his children at that same age, andnow must extinguish a long descended and slowly impoverished family. 

"If I had but a gold watch I could save her!" he cried in his agony, ashe left the house. "Ever since the old gold watch was sold, they havedied--they have died! They are gone, one after one, the last of all mychildren!"

In these lonely valleys lurks a strange old superstition that even Deathmust listen to the voice of Time in gold; that, when the scanty numberedmoments of the sick are fleeting, a gold watch laid in the wasted palm, and pointing the earthly hours, compels the scythe of Death to pause, the timeless power to bow before the two great gods of the humanrace--time and gold. 

Poor George in the valley must have shown his watch. The despairingfather must have been struck with crafty madness at the sight. Thewatch was placed in his daughter's palm; but Death had no regard forit. Thenceforth Black Hopkin was a blasted man, racked with remorse andheart-disease, sometimes raving, always roving, but finding no placeof repentance. And it must have been a happy stroke--if he had madehis peace above, which none of us can deal with--when the throb of hislong-worn heart stood still at the vision of his victim, and his soultook flight to realms that have no gold and no chronometer.