SNAKE AND SWORD

_A NOVEL_

BY

PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN

DEDICATED TO MY WIFE ALICE LUCILLE WREN

CONTENTS

PART I. 

THE WELDING OF A SOUL

 I. The Snake and the Soul

PART II. 

THE SEARING OF A SOUL

 II. The Sword and the Snake

 III. The Snake Appears

 IV. The Sword and the Soul

 V. Lucille

 VI. The Snake's "Myrmidon"

 VII. Love--and the Snake

VIII. Troopers of the Queen

 IX. A Snake avenges a Haddock and Lucille behaves in an un-Smelliean Manner

 X. Much Ado about Almost Nothing--A Mere Trooper

 XI. More Myrmidons

PART III. 

THE SAVING OF A SOUL

 XII. Vultures and Luck--Good and Bad

XIII. Found

 XIV. The Snake and the Sword

 Seven Years After

PART I. 

THE WELDING OF A SOUL. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE SNAKE AND THE SOUL. 

When Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne, V. C. , D. S. O. , of the Queen'sOwn (118th) Bombay Lancers, pinned his Victoria Cross to the bosom ofhis dying wife's night-dress, in token of his recognition that she wasthe braver of the twain, he was not himself. 

He was beside himself with grief. 

Afterwards he adjured the sole witness of this impulsive and emotionalact, Major John Decies, never to mention his "damned theatrical folly"to any living soul, and to excuse him on the score of an ancientsword-cut on the head and two bad sun-strokes. 

For the one thing in heaven above, on the earth beneath, or in thewaters under the earth, that Colonel de Warrenne feared, was breach ofgood form and stereotyped convention. 

And the one thing he loved was the dying woman. 

This last statement applies also to Major John Decies, of the IndianMedical Service, Civil Surgeon of Bimariabad, and may even beexpanded, for the one thing he ever _had_ loved was the dyingwoman.... 

Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne did the deed that won him hisVictoria Cross, in the open, in the hot sunlight and in hot blood, sword in hand and with hot blood on the sword-hand--fighting for hislife. 

His wife did the deed that moved him to transfer the Cross to her, indarkness, in cold blood, in loneliness, sickness and silence--fightingfor the life of her unborn child against an unseen foe. 

Colonel de Warrenne's type of brave deed has been performed thousandsof times and wherever brave men have fought. 

His wife's deed of endurance, presence of mind, self-control and coolcourage is rarer, if not unique. 

To appreciate this fully, it must be known that she had a horror ofsnakes, so terrible as to amount to an obsession, a mental deformity, due, doubtless, to the fact that her father (Colonel Mortimer SeymourStukeley) died of snake-bite before her mother's eyes, a few hoursbefore she herself was born. 

Bearing this in mind, judge of the conduct that led Colonel deWarrenne, distraught, to award her his Cross "For Valour". 

One oppressive June evening, Lenore de Warrenne returned from church(where she had, as usual, prayed fervently that her soon-expectedfirst-born might be a daughter), and entered her dressing-room. Hereher Ayah divested her of hat, dress, and boots, and helped her intothe more easeful tea-gown and satin slippers. 

"Bootlair wanting ishweets for dinner-table from go-down, [1] please, Mem-Sahib, " observed Ayah, the change of garb accomplished. 

"The butler wants sweets, does he? Give me my keys, then, " repliedMrs. De Warrenne, and, rising with a sigh, she left the dressing-roomand proceeded, _via_ the dining-room (where she procured some smallsilver bowls, sweet-dishes, and trays), to the go-down or store-room, situate at the back of the bungalow and adjoining the"dispense-khana"--the room in which assemble the materials andministrants of meals from the extra-mural "bowachi-khana" or kitchen. Unlocking the door of the go-down, Mrs. De Warrenne entered the smallshelf-encircled room, and, stepping on to a low stool proceeded tofill the sweet-trays from divers jars, tins and boxes, withguava-cheese, crystallized ginger, _kulwa_, preserved mango andcertain of the more sophisticated sweetmeats of the West. 

It was after sunset and the _hamal_ had not yet lit the lamps, so thatthis pantry, a dark room at mid-day, was far from light at that time. But for the fact that she knew exactly where everything was, and couldput her hand on what she wanted, she would not have entered without alight. 

For some minutes the unfortunate lady stood on the stool. 

Having completed her task she stepped down backwards and, as her foottouched the ground, she knew _that she had trodden upon a snake. _

Even as she stood poised, one foot on the ground, the other on thestool, both hands gripping the high shelf, she felt the reptilewhipping, writhing, jerking, lashing, flogging at her ankle andinstep, coiling round her leg.... And in the fraction of a second thethought flashed through her mind: "If its head is under my foot, ortoo close to my foot for its fangs to reach me, I am safe while Iremain as I am. If its head is free I am doomed--and matters cannot beany the worse for my keeping as I am. "

_And she kept as she was, _ with one foot on the stool, out of reach, and one foot on the snake. 

And screamed?

No, called quietly and coolly for the butler, remembering that she hadsent Nurse Beaton out, that her husband was at polo, that there werenone but native servants in the house, and that if she raised an alarmthey would take it, and with single heart consider each the safety ofNumber One. 

"Boy!" she called calmly, though the room swam round her and a deadlyfaintness began to paralyse her limbs and loosen her hold upon theshelf--"Boy! Come here. "

Antonio Ferdinand Xavier D'Souza, Goanese butler, heard and came. 

"Mem-Sahib?" quoth he, at the door of the go-down. 

"Bring a lamp quickly, " said Lenore de Warrenne in a level voice. 

The worthy Antonio, fat, spectacled, bald and wheezy, hurried away andperemptorily bade the _hamal_[2], son of a jungle-pig, to light andbring a lamp quickly. 

The _hamal_, respectfully pointing out to the Bootlair Sahib that thedaylight was yet strong and lusty enough to shame and smother anylamp, complied with deliberation and care, polishing the chimney, trimming the wick, pouring in oil and generally making a satisfactoryand commendable job of it. 

Lenore de Warrenne, sick, faint, sinking, waited ... Waited ... Waited... Gripping the shelf and fighting against her over-masteringweakness for the life of the unborn child that, even in that awfulmoment, she prayed might be a daughter. 

After many cruelly long centuries, and as she swayed to fall, the goodAntonio entered with the lamp. Her will triumphed over her fallingbody. 

"Boy, I am standing on a snake!" said she coolly. "Put the lamp--"

But Antonio did not stay to "put" the lamp; incontinent he dropped iton the floor and fled yelling "Sap! Sap!" and that the Mem-Sahib wasbitten, dying, dead--certainly dead; dead for hours. 

And the brave soul in the little room waited ... Waited ... Waited ... Gripping the shelf, and thinking of the coming daughter, and wonderingwhether she must die by snake-bite or fire--unborn--with her unhappymother. For the fallen lamp had burst, the oil had caught fire, andthe fire gave no light by which she could see what was beneath herfoot--head, body, or tail of the lashing, squirming snake--as theflame flickered, rose and fell, burnt blue, swayed, roared in thedraught of the door--did anything but give a light by which she couldsee as she bent over awkwardly, still gripping the shelf, one foot onthe stool, further prevented from seeing by her loose draperies. 

Soon she realized that in any case she could not see her foot withoutchanging her position--a thing she would _not_ do while there washope--and strength to hold on. For hope there was, inasmuch as _shehad not yet felt the stroke of the reptile's fangs_. 

Again she reasoned calmly, though strength was ebbing fast; she mustremain as she was till death by fire or suffocation was thealternative to flight--flight which was synonymous with death, for, asher other foot came down and she stepped off the snake, in thatinstant it would strike--if it had not struck already. 

Meantime--to call steadily and coolly again. 

This time she called to the _hamal_, a Bhil, engaged out ofcompassion, and likely, as a son of the jungle's sons, to be of morecourage than the stall-fed butler in presence of dangerous beast orreptile. 

"_Hamal_: I want you, " she called coolly. 

"Mem-Sahib?" came the reply from the lamp-room near by, and the manapproached. 

"That stupid butler has dropped a lamp and run away. Bring a pail ofwater quickly and call to the _malli_[3] to bring a pail of earth asyou get it. Hasten!--and there is baksheesh, " said Mrs. De Warrennequietly in the vernacular. 

Tap and pail were by the door of the back verandah. In a minute the_hamal_ entered and flung a pail of water on the burning pool of oil, reducing the mass of blue lambent flames considerably. 

"Now _hamal_, " said the fainting woman, the more immediate dangerconfronted, "bring another lamp very quickly and put it on the shelf. Quick! don't stop to fill or to clean it. "

Was the pricking, shooting pain the repeated stabbing of the snake'sfangs or was it "pins and needles"? Was this deadly faintness deathindeed, or was it only weakness?

In what seemed but a few more years the man reappeared carrying alighted lamp, the which he placed upon a shelf. 

"Listen, " said Mrs. De Warrenne, "and have no fear, brave Bhil. I have_caught_ a snake. Get a knife quickly and cut off its head while Ihold it. "

The man glancing up, appeared to suppose that his mistress held thesnake on the shelf, hurried away, and rushed back with the cook's bigkitchen-knife gripped dagger-wise in his right hand. 

"Do you see the snake?" she managed to whisper. "Under my foot!Quick! It is moving ... Moving ... Moving _out_. "

With a wild Bhil cry the man flung himself down upon his hereditarydread foe and slashed with the knife. 

Mrs. De Warrenne heard it scratch along the floor, grate on a nail, and crush through the snake. 

"Aré!! Dead, Mem-Sahib!! Dead!! See, I have cut off its head! Aré!!!!Wah!! The brave mistress!----"

As she collapsed, Mrs. De Warrenne saw the twitching body of a largecobra with its head severed close to its neck. Its head had justprotruded from under her foot and she had saved the unborn life forwhich she had fought so bravely by just keeping still.... She had wonher brief decoration with the Cross by--keeping still. (Her husbandhad won his permanent right to it by extreme activity. ) ... Had shemoved she would have been struck instantly, for the reptile was, byher, uninjured, merely nipped between instep and floor. 

Having realized this, Lenore de Warrenne fainted and then passed fromfit to fit, and her child--a boy--was born that night. Hundreds oftimes during the next few days the same terrible cry rang from thesick-room through the hushed bungalow: "It is under my foot! It ismoving ... Moving ... Moving ... _out!_"

 * * * * *

"If I had to make a prophecy concerning this young fella, " observedthe broken-hearted Major John Decies, I. M. S. , Civil Surgeon ofBimariabad, as he watched old Nurse Beaton performing the baby'selaborate ablutions and toilet, "I should say that he will _not_ growup fond of snakes--not if there is anything in the 'pre-natalinfluence' theory. "

PART II. 

THE SEARING OF A SOUL. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE SWORD AND THE SNAKE. 

Colonel Matthew Devon De Warrenne, commanding the Queen's Own (118th)Bombay Lancers, was in good time, in his best review-order uniform, and in a terrible state of mind. 

He strode from end to end of the long verandah of his bungalow withclank of steel, creak of leather, and groan of travailing soul. As thetop of his scarlet, blue and gold turban touched the lamp that hung agood seven feet above his spurred heels he swore viciously. 

Almost for the first time in his hard-lived, selfish life he had beenthwarted, flouted, cruelly and evilly entreated, and the worst of itwas that his enemy was--not a man whom he could take by the throat, but--Fate. 

Fate had dealt him a cruel blow, and he felt as he would have done hadhe, impotent, seen one steal the great charger that champed and pawedthere at the door, and replace it by a potter's donkey. Nay, worse--for he had _loved_ Lenore, his wife, and Fate had stolen heraway and replaced her by a squealing brat. 

Within a year of his marriage his wife was dead and buried, and hisson alive and--howling. He could hear him (curse him!). 

The Colonel glanced at his watch, producing it from some mysteriousrecess beneath his belted golden sash and within his pale blue tunic. 

Not yet time to ride to the regimental parade-ground and lead hisfamous corps to its place on the brigade parade-ground for the NewYear Review and march-past. 

As he held the watch at the length of its chain and stared, half-comprehending, his hand--the hand of the finest swordsman in theIndian Army--shook. 

Lenore gone: a puling, yelping whelp in her place.... A tall, severe-looking elderly woman entered the verandah by a distant doorand approached the savage, miserable soldier. Nurse Beaton. 

"_Will_ you give your son a name, Sir?" she said, and it was evidentin voice and manner that the question had been asked before and hadreceived an unsatisfactory, if not unprintable; reply. Every line offeature and form seemed to express indignant resentment. She hadnursed and foster-mothered the child's mother, and--unlike theman--had found the baby the chiefest consolation of her cruel grief, and already loved it not only for its idolized mother's sake, but withthe devotion of a childless child-lover. 

"The christening is fixed for to-day, Sir, as I have kept remindingyou, Sir, " she added. 

She had never liked the Colonel--nor considered him "good enough" forher tender, dainty darling, "nearly three times her age and no betterthan he ought to be". 

"Name?" snarled Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne. "Name the littlebeast? Call him what you like, and then drown him. " The tight-lippedface of the elderly nurse flushed angrily, but before she could makethe indignant reply that her hurt and scandalized look presaged, theColonel added:--

"No, look here, call him _Damocles_, and done with it. The Sword hangsover him too, I suppose, and he'll die by it, as all his ancestorshave done. Yes--"

"It's not a nice name, Sir, to my thinking, " interrupted the woman, "not for an only name--and for an only child. Let it be a second orthird name, Sir, if you want to give him such an outlandish one. "

She fingered her new black dress nervously with twitching hands andthe tight lips trembled. 

"He's to be named Damocles and nothing else, " replied the Master, and, as she turned away with a look of positive hate, he addedsardonically:--

"And then you can call him 'Dam' for short, you know, Nurse. "

Nurse Beaton bridled, clenched her hands, and stiffened visibly. Hadthe man been her social equal or any other than her master, herpent-up wrath and indignation would have broken forth in a torrent ofscathing abuse. 

"Never would I call the poor motherless lamb _Dam_, Sir, " sheanswered with restraint. 

"Then call him _Dummy!_ Good morning, Nurse, " snapped the Colonel. 

As she turned to go, with a bitter sigh, she asked in the hopelesstone of one who knows the waste of words:--

"You will not repent--I mean relent--and come to the christening ofyour only son this afternoon, Sir?"

"Good morning, Nurse, " observed Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne, andresumed his hurried pacing of the verandah. 

 * * * * *

It is not enough that a man love his wife dearly and hold her thesweetest, fairest, and best of women--he should tell her so, morningand night. 

There is a proverb (the unwisdom of many and the poor wit of one) thatsays _Actions speak louder than Words_. Whether this is the mostuntrustworthy of an untrustworthy class of generalizations isdebateable. 

Anyhow, let no husband or lover believe it. Vain are the deeds of dumbdevotion, the unwearying forethought, the tender care, the gifts ofprice, and the priceless gifts of attentive, watchful guard and guide, the labours of Love--all vain. Silent is the speech of Action. 

But resonant loud is the speech of Words and profitable theirinvestment in the Mutual Alliance Bank. 

"_Love me, love my Dog?_" Yes--and look to the dog for a dog'sreward. 

"_Do not show me that you love me--tell me so. _" Far too true andpregnant ever to become a proverb. 

Colonel de Warrenne had omitted to tell his wife so--after she hadaccepted him--and she had died thinking herself loveless, unloved, andstating the fact. 

This was the bitterest drop in the bitter cup of the big, dumb, well-meaning man. 

And now she would never know.... 

She had thought herself unloved, and, nerve-shattered by her terribleexperience with the snake, had made no fight for life when theunwanted boy was born. For the sake of a girl she would have strivento live--but a boy, a boy can fend for himself (and takes after hisfather).... 

Almost as soon as Lenore Seymour Stukeley had landed in India (on avisit with her sister Yvette to friends at Bimariabad), delighted, bewildered, depolarized, Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne had burstwith a blaze of glory into her hitherto secluded, narrow life--a greatpale-blue, white-and-gold wonder, clanking and jingling, resplendent, bemedalled, ruling men, charging at the head of thunderingsquadrons--a half-god (and to Yvette he had seemed a whole-god). 

He had told her that he loved her, told her once, and had beenaccepted. 

_Once_! Only once told her that he loved her, that she was beautiful, that he was hers to command to the uttermost. Only once! What could_she_ know of the changed life, the absolute renunciation of pleasantbachelor vices, the pulling up short, and all those actions that speakmore softly than words?

What could she know of the strength and depth of the love that couldkeep such a man as the Colonel from the bar, the bridge-table, therace-course and the Paphian dame? Of the love that made him walkwarily lest he offend one for whom his quarter of a century, and more, of barrack and bachelor-bungalow life, made him feel so utterly unfitand unworthy? What could she know of all that he had given up anddelighted to give up--now that he truly loved a true woman? Thehard-living, hard-hearted, hard-spoken man had become a gentlefrequenter of his wife's tea-parties, her companion at church, herconstant attendant--never leaving the bungalow, save for duty, withouther. 

To those who knew him it was a World's Marvel; to her, who knew himnot, it was nothing at all--normal, natural. And being a man who spokeonly when he must, who dreaded the expression of any emotion, and whofoolishly thought that actions speak louder than words, he had omittedto tell her daily--or even weekly or monthly--that he loved her; andshe had died pitying herself and reproaching him. 

Fate's old, old game of Cross Purposes. Major John Decies, reserved, high-minded gentleman, loving Lenore de Warrenne (and longing to tellher so daily), with the one lifelong love of a steadfast nature;Yvette Stukeley, reserved, high-minded gentlewoman, loving Colonel deWarrenne, and longing to escape from Bimariabad before his wedding toher sister, and doing so at the earliest possible date thereafter:each woman losing the man who would have been her ideal husband, eachman losing the woman who would have been his ideal wife. 

Yvette Stukeley returned to her uncle and guardian, General Sir GeraldSeymour Stukeley, K. C. B. , K. C. S. I. , at Monksmead, nursing a brokenheart, and longed for the day when Colonel de Warrenne's child mightbe sent home to her care. 

Major John Decies abode at Bimariabad, also nursing a broken heart(though he scarcely realized the fact), watched over the son of Lenorede Warrenne, and greatly feared for him. 

The Major was an original student of theories and facts of Heredityand Pre-natal Influence. Further he was not wholly hopeful as to theeffect of all the _post_-natal influences likely to be brought to bearupon a child who grew up in the bungalow, and the dislike of ColonelMatthew Devon de Warrenne. 

Upon the infant Damocles, Nurse Beaton, rugged, snow-capped volcano, lavished the tender love of a mother; and in him Major John Decies, deep-running still water, took the interest of a father. The whichwas the better for the infant Damocles in that his real father had nointerest to take and no love to lavish. He frankly disliked thechild--the outward and visible sign, the daily reminder of the cruelloss he so deeply felt and fiercely resented. 

Yet, strangely enough, he would not send the child home. Relations whocould receive it he had none, and he declined to be beholden to itsgreat-uncle, General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, and its aunt YvetteStukeley, in spite of the warmest invitations from the one and earnestentreaties from the other. 

Nurse Beaton fed, tended, clothed and nursed the baby by day; aworshipping ayah wheeled him abroad, and, by night, slept beside hiscot; a devoted sepoy-orderly from the regiment guarded his cavalcade, and, when permitted, proudly bore him in his arms. 

Major John Decies visited him frequently, watched and waited, waitedand watched, and, though not a youth, "thought long, long thoughts". 

He also frequently laid his views and theories on paternal dutiesbefore Colonel de Warrenne, until pointedly asked by that officerwhether he had no duties of his own which might claim his valuabletime. 

Years rolled by, after the incorrigible habit of years, and the infantDamocles grew and developed into a remarkably sturdy, healthy, intelligent boy, as cheerful, fearless, impudent, and irrepressible asthe heart of the Major could desire--and with a much largervocabulary than any one could desire, for a baby. 

On the fifth anniversary of his birthday he received a matutinal callfrom Major Decies, who was returning from his daily visit to the CivilHospital. 

The Major bore a birthday present and a very anxious, undecided mind. 

"Good morrow, gentle Damocles, " he remarked, entering the big verandahadown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his belovedfriend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed, andlargely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tinlid, a piece of wood, card-board and wire. 

"Thalaam, Major Thahib, " he said, flinging himself bodily upon thatgentleman. "I thaw cook cut a fowl's froat vis morning. It squorkedboofly. "

"Did it? Alas, that I missed those pleasing-er-squorks, " replied theMajor, and added: "This is thy natal day, my son. Thou art a man offive. "

"I'm a debble. I'm a _norful_ little debble, " corrected Damocles, cheerfully and with conviction. 

"Incidentally. But you are five also, " persisted the senior man. 

"It's my birfday to-day, " observed the junior. 

"I just said so. "

"_That_ you didn't, Major Thahib. This is a thword. Father's charger'sgot an over-weach. Jumping. He says it's a dam-nuithanth. "

"Oh, that's a sword, is it? And 'Fire' has got an over-reach. Andit's a qualified nuisance, is it?"

"Yeth, and the mare is coughing and her _thythe_ is a blathted foolfor letting her catch cold. "

"The mare has a cold and the _syce_[4] is a qualified fool, is he?H'm! I think it's high time you had a look in at little old England, my son, what? And who made you this elegant rapier? Ochterlonie Sahibor--who?" (Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie was the Adjutant of the Queen'sGreys, a friend of Colonel de Warrenne, an ex-admirer of his latewife, and a great pal of his son. )

"'Tithn't a waper. It'th my thword. I made it mythelf. "

"Who helped?"

"Nobody. At leatht, Khodadad Khan, Orderly, knocked the holes in thetin like I showed him--or elthe got the Farrier Thargeant to do it, and thaid _he_ had. "

"Yes--but who told you how to make it like this? Where did you see ahand-part like this? It isn't like Daddy's sword, nor Khodadad Khan's_tulwar_. Where did you copy it?"

"I didn't copy it.... I shot ten rats wiv a bow-and-arrow last night. At leatht--I don't think I shot ten. Nor one. I don't think I didn't, pwaps. "

"But hang it all, the thing's an Italian rapier, by Gad. Some one_must_ have shown you how to make the thing, or you've got a picture. It's a _pukka_[5] mediaeval rapier. "

"No it'th not. It'th my thword. I made it.... Have a jollyfight"--and the boy struck an extraordinarily correct fencingattitude--left hand raised in balance, sword poised, legs and feetwell placed, the whole pose easy, natural, graceful. 

Curiously enough, the sword was held horizontal instead of pointingupward, a fact which at once struck the observant and practised eye ofMajor John Decies, sometime champion fencer. 

"Who's been teaching you fencing?" he asked. 

"What ith 'fenthing'? Let'th have a fight, " replied the boy. 

"Stick me here, Dam, " invited the Major, seating himself andindicating the position of the heart. "Bet you can't. "

The boy lunged, straight, true, gracefully, straightening all hislimbs except his right leg, rigidly, strongly, and the "sword" bentupward from the spot on which the man's finger had just rested. 

"Gad! Who _has_ taught you to lunge? I shall have a bruise there, andperhaps--live. Who's behind all this, young fella? Who taught you tostand so, and to lunge? Ochterlonie Sahib or Daddy?"

"Nobody. What is 'lunge'? Will you buy me a little baby-camel to playwith and teach tricks? Perhaps it would sit up and beg. Do camelth layeggth? Chucko does. Millions and lakhs. You get a thword, too, andwe'll fight every day. Yeth. All day long----"

"Good morning, Sir, " said Nurse Beaton, bustling into the verandahfrom the nursery. "He's as mad as ever on swords and fighting, yousee. It's a soldier he'll be, the lamb. He's taken to making thatblack orderly pull out his sword when he's in uniform. Makes him waveand jab it about. Gives me the creeps--with his black face and whiteeyes and all. You won't _encourage_ the child at it, will you, Sir?And his poor Mother the gentlest soul that ever stepped. Swords! Wherehe gets his notions _I_ can't think (though I know where he gets hislanguage, poor lamb!). Look at _that_ thing, Sir! For all the worldlike the dressed-up folk have on the stage or in pictures. "

"You haven't let him see any books, I suppose, Nurse?" asked theMajor. 

"No, Sir. Never a book has the poor lamb seen, except those you'vebrought. I've always been in terror of his seeing a picture of ayou-know-what, ever since you told me what the effect _might_ be. Norhe hasn't so much as heard the name of it, so far as I know. "

"Well, he'll see one to-day. I've brought it with me--must see itsooner or later. Might see a live one anywhere--in spite of all yourcare.... But about this sword--where _could_ he have got the idea?It's unlike any sword he ever set eyes on. Besides if he ever _did_see an Italian rapier--and there's scarcely such a thing inIndia--he'd not get the chance to use it as a copy. Fancy his havingthe desire and the power to, anyhow!"

"I give it up, Sir, " said Nurse Beaton. 

"I give it upper, " added the Major, taking the object of their wonderfrom the child. 

And there was cause for wonder indeed. 

A hole had been punched through the centre of the lid of a tobacco tinand a number of others round the edge. Through the centre hole thesteel rod had been passed so that the tin made a "guard". To the otherholes wires had been fastened by bending, and their ends gathered, twisted, and bound with string to the top of the handle (of boredcorks) to form an ornamental basket-hilt. 

But the most remarkable thing of all was that, before doing this, thejuvenile designer had passed the rod through a piece of bored stick sothat the latter formed a _cross-piece_ (neatly bound) within the tinguard--the distinctive feature of the ancient and modern Italianrapiers!

Round this cross-piece the first two fingers of the boy's right handwere crooked as he held the sword--and this is the one and onlycorrect way of holding the Italian weapon, as the Major was wellaware!

"I give it most utterly-uppermost, " he murmured. "It's positivelyuncanny. No _uninitiated_ adult of the utmost intelligence ever heldan Italian-pattern foil correctly yet--nor until he had been prettycarefully shown. Who the devil put him up to the design in the firstplace, and the method of holding, in the second? Explain yourself, youtwo-anna[6] marvel, " he demanded of the child. "It's _jadu_--blackmagic. "

"Ayah lothted a wupee latht night, " he replied. 

"Lost a rupee, did she? Lucky young thing. Wish I had one to lose. Whoshowed you how to hold that sword? Why do you crook your fingers roundthe cross-piece like that?"

"Chucko laid me an egg latht night, " observed Damocles. "He laid itwith my name on it--so that cook couldn't steal it. "

"No doubt. Look here, where can I get a sword like yours? Where can Icopy it? Who makes them? Who knows about them?"

"_I_ don't know, Major Thahib. Gunnoo sells 'Fire's' gram to the_methrani_ for her curry and chuppatties. "

"But how do you know swords are like this? _That_ thing isn't a_pukka_ sword. "

"Well, it'th like Thir Theymour Thtukeley's in my dweam. "

"What dream?"

"The one I'm alwayth dweaming. They have got long hair like Nurse inthe night, and they fight and fight like anything. Norful goodfighters! And they wear funny kit. And their thwords are like vis. _Egg_zackly. Gunnoo gave me a ride on 'Fire, ' and he'th a dam-liar. Hethaid he forgot to put the warm _jhool_ on him when Daddy was going tofwash him for being a dam-fool. I thaid I'd tell Daddy how he alwayththleepth in it himthelf, unleth he gave me a ride on 'Fire'. 'Fire'gave a _norful_ buck and bucked me off. At leatht I think he didn't. "

Major Decies' face was curiously intent--as of some midnight worker inresearch who sees a bright near glimpse of the gold his alchemy has solong sought to materialize in the alembic of fact. 

"Come back to sober truth, young youth. What about the dream? Who arethey, and what do they say and do?"

"Thir Theymour Thtukeley Thahib tellth Thir Matthew Thahib about thehilt-thwust. (What _is_ 'hilt-thwust'?) And Lubin, the thervant, ith a_white_ thervant. Why ith he white if he ith a Thahib's 'boy'?"

"Good Gad!" murmured the Major. "I'm favoured of the gods. Tell me allabout it, Sonny. Then I'll undo this parcel for you, " he coaxed. 

"Oh, I don't wemember. They buck a lot by the tents and then ThirTheymour Thtukeley goes and fights Thir Matthew and kills him, andit'th awful lovely, but they dreth up like kids at a party in bigcollars and silly kit. "

"Yes, I know, " murmured the Major. "Tell me what they say when theybuck to each other by the tents, and when they talk about the'hilt-thrust, ' old chap. "

"Oh, I don't wemember. I'll listen next time I dweam it, and tell you. Chucko's egg was all brown--not white like those cook brings from thebazaar. He's a dam-thief. Open the parcel, Major Thabib. What's init?"

"A picture-book for you, Sonny. All sorts of jolly beasts that you'll_shikar_ some day. You'll tell me some more about the dream to-morrow, won't you?"

"Yeth. I'll wemember and fink, and tell you what I have finked. "

Turning to Nurse Beaton, the Major whispered:--

"Don't worry him about this dream at all. Leave it to me. It'swonderful. Take him on your lap, Nurse, and--er--be _ready_. It's avery life-like picture, and I'm going to spring it on him without anyremark--but I'm more than a little anxious, I admit. Still, it's _got_to come, as I say, and better a picture first, with ourselves present. If the picture don't affect him I'll show him a real one. May be allright of course, but I don't know. I came across a somewhat similarcase once before--and it was _not_ all right. Not by any means, " andhe disclosed the brilliantly coloured Animal Picture Book and kneltbeside the expectant boy. 

On the first page was an incredibly leonine lion, who appeared to havesolved with much satisfaction the problem of aerial flight, so far washe from the mountain whence he had sprung and above the back of theantelope towards which he had propelled himself. One could almost hearhim roar. There was menace and fate in eye and tooth and claw, yea, inthe very kink of the prehensile-seeming tail wherewith he apparentlysteered his course in mid-air. To gaze upon his impressive anddetermined countenance was to sympathize most fully with thesore-tried Prophet of old (known to Damocles as Dannle-in-the-lines-den)for ever more. 

The boy was wholly charmed, stroked the glowing ferocity and observedthat he was a _pukka Bahadur_. [7]

On the next page, burning bright, was a tiger, if possible one degreemore terrible than the lion. His "fearful cemetery" appeared to befull, judging by its burgeoned bulge and the shocking state ofdepletion exhibited by the buffalo on which he fed with barelyinaudible snarls and grunts of satisfaction. Blood dripped from hiscapacious and over-furnished mouth. 

"Booful, " murmured Damocles. "I shall go shooting tigerth to-mowwow. Shoot vem in ve mouth, down ve froat, so as not to spoil ve wool. "

Turning over the page, the Major disclosed a most grievous grizzlybear, grizzly and bearish beyond conception, heraldic, regardant, expectant, not collared, fanged and clawed proper, rampant, erect, requiring no supporters. 

"You could thtab him wiv a thword if you were quick, while he wasdoing that, " opined Damocles, charmed, enraptured, delighted. One byone, other savage, fearsome beasts were disclosed to the increasinglydelighted boy until, without warning, the Major suddenly turned a pageand disclosed a brilliant and hungry-looking snake. 

With a piercing shriek the boy leapt convulsively from Nurse Beaton'sarms, rushed blindly into the wall and endeavoured to butt and borehis way through it with his head, screaming like a wounded horse. Asthe man and woman sprang to him he shrieked, "It'th under my foot!It'th moving, moving, moving _out_" and fell to the ground in a fit. 

Major John Decies arose from his bachelor dinner-table that evening, lit his "planter" cheroot, and strolled into the verandah that lookedacross a desert to a mountain range. 

Dropping into a long low chair, he raised his feet on to the longleg-rest extensions of its arms, and, as he settled down and waitedfor coffee, wondered why no such chairs are known in the West; why thetrunks of the palms looked less flat in the moonlight than in thedaylight (in which, from that spot, they always looked exactly asthough cut out of cardboard); why Providence had not arranged forperpetual full-moon; why the world looked such a place of peaceful, glorious beauty by moonlight, the bare cruel mountains like diaphanousclouds of tenderest soothing mist, the Judge's hideous bungalow like afairy palace, his own parched compound like a plot of Paradise, whenall was so abominable by day; and, as ever--why his darling, LenoreStukeley, had had to marry de Warrenne and die in the full flower andpromise of her beautiful womanhood. 

Having finished his coffee and lighted his pipe (_vice_ the over-dryfriable cheroot, flung into the garden) the Major then turned his mindto serious and consecutive thought on the subject of her son, hisbeloved little pal, Dammy de Warrenne. 

Poor little beggar! What an eternity it had seemed before he had gothim to sleep. How the child had suffered. Mad! Absolutely stark, staring, raving _mad_ with sheer terror.... Had he acted rightly inshowing him the picture? He had meant well, anyhow. Cruel phrase, that. How cuttingly his friend de Warrenne had observed, "You meanwell, doubtless, " on more than one occasion. He could make it the moststinging of insults.... Surely he had acted rightly.... Poor littlebeggar--but he was bound to see a picture or a real live specimen, sooner or later. Perhaps when there was no help at hand.... Would hebe like it always? _Might_ grow out of it as he grew older andstronger. What would have happened if he had encountered a live snake?Lost his reason permanently, perhaps.... What would happen when he_did_ see one, as sooner or later, he certainly must?

What would be the best plan? To attempt gradually to inure him--or toguard him absolutely from contact with picture, stuffed specimen, model, toy, and the real thing, wild or captive, as one would guardhim against a fell disease?

_Could_ he be inured? Could one "break it to him gently" bye and bye, by first drawing a wiggly line and then giving it a head? One mightsketch a suggestion of a snake, make a sort of dissimilar clay model, improve it, show him a cast skin, stuff it, make a more life-likepicture, gradually lead up to a well-stuffed one and then a live one. Might work up to having a good big picture of one on the nursery wall;one in a glass case; keep a harmless live one and show it him daily. Teach him by experience that there's nothing supernatural about asnake--just a nasty reptile that wants exterminating like otherdangerous creatures--something to _shikar_ with a gun. Nothing at allsupernatural.... 

But this was "super"-natural, abnormal, a terrible devastating agonyof madness, inherited, incurable probably; part of mind and body andsoul. Inherited, and integrally of him as were the colour of his eyes, his intelligence, his physique.... Heredity ... Pre-natal influence... Breed.... 

Anyhow, nothing must be attempted yet awhile. Let the poor little chapget older and stronger, in mind and body, first. Brave as a littlebull-dog in other directions! Absolutely devoid of fear otherwise, andwith a natural bent for fighting and adventure. Climb anywhere, especially up the hind leg of a camel or a horse, fondle any strangedog, clamour to be put on any strange horse, go into any deep water, cheek anybody, bear any ordinary pain with a grin, thrill to any storyof desperate deeds--a fine, brave, manly, hardy little chap, and withart extraordinary physique for strength and endurance. 

Whatever was to be attempted later, he must be watched, day andnight, now. No unattended excursions into the compound, no uncensoredpicture-books, no juggling snake-charmers.... Yet it _must_ come, sooner or later. 

Would it ruin his life?

Anyhow, he must never return to India when he grew up, or go to anysnake-producing country, unless he could be cured. 

Would it make him that awful thing--a coward?

Would it grow and wax till it dominated his mind--drive him mad?

Would succeeding attacks, following encounters with picture orreality, progressively increase in severity?

_Her_ boy in an asylum?

No. He was exaggerating an almost expected consequence that mightnever be repeated--especially if the child were most carefully andgradually reintroduced to the present terror. Later though--much lateron. 

Meanwhile, wait and hope: hope and wait.... 

CHAPTER III. 

THE SNAKE APPEARS. 

The European child who grows up in India, if only to the age of six orseven years, grows under a severe moral, physical, and mentalhandicap. 

However wise, devoted, and conscientious its parents may be, the evilis great, and remains one of the many heavy costs (or punishments) ofEmpire. 

When the child has no mother and an indifferent father, life'shandicap is even more severe. 

By his sixth birthday (the regiment being still in Bimariabad owing tothe prevalence of drought, famine, and cholera elsewhere) Damocles deWarrenne, knowing the Urdu language and _argot_ perfectly, knew, intheory also, more of evil, in some directions, than did his ownfather. 

If the child who grows up absolutely straight-forward, honest, above-board and pure in thought, word, and deed, in England, deservescommendation, what does the child deserve who does so in India?

Understanding every word they spoke to one another, the training hegot from native servants was one of undiluted evil and a series ofobject-lessons in deceit, petty villainy, chicanery, oppression, lying, dishonesty, and all immorality. And yet--thanks to his equalunderstanding of the words and deeds of Nurse Beaton, Major Decies, Lieutenant Ochterlonie, his father, the Officers of the Regiment, andthe Europeans of the station--he had a clear, if unconscious, understanding that what was customary for native servants was neithercustomary nor possible for Sahibs.... 

But he knew too much.... 

He knew what percentage of his or her pay each servant had to hand tothe "butler-sahib" monthly--or lose his or her place through falseaccusation. 

He knew why the ayah was graciously exempted from financial toll bythis autocrat. He knew roughly what proportion of the cook's dailybill represented the actual cost of his daily purchases. He knew whatthe door-peon got for consenting to take in the card of the Indianaspirant for an interview with Colonel de Warrenne. 

He knew the terms of the arrangements between the head-syce and thegrain-dealer, the lucerne-grass seller, the _ghas-wallah_[8] whobrought the hay (whereby reduced quantities were accepted in returnfor illegal gratifications). He knew of retail re-sales of thesereduced supplies. 

He knew of the purchase of oil, rice, condiments, fire-wood and othercommodities from the cook, of the theft (by arrangement) of thepoultry and eggs, of the surreptitious milking of the cow, and of thesimple plan of milking her--under Nurse Beaton's eye--into anarrow-necked vessel already half full of water. 

He knew that the ayah's husband sold the Colonel's soda-water, paraffin, matches, candles, tobacco, cheroots, fruit, sugar, etc. , ata little portable shop round the corner of the road, and of the termson which the _hamal_ and the butler supplied these commodities to theayah for transfer to her good man. 

He knew too much of the philosophy, manners, habits, and morals of thedog-boy, of concealed cases of the most infectious diseases in thecompound, of the sub-letting and over-crowding of the servants'quarters, of incredible quarrels, intrigues, jealousies, revenges, base villainies and wrongs, superstitions and beliefs. 

He would hear the hatching of a plot--an hour's arrangement andwrangle--whereby, through far-sighted activity, perjury, malpracticeand infinite ingenuity, the ringleader would gain a _pice_ and thefollower a _pie_ (a farthing and a third of a farthing respectively). 

Daily he saw the butler steal milk, sugar, and tea, for his own use;the _hamal_ steal oil when he filled the lamps, for sale; the _malli_steal flowers, for sale; the coachman steal carriage-candles; the cooksteal a moiety of everything that passed through his hands--every onein that black underworld stealing, lying, back-biting, cheating, intriguing (and all meanwhile strictly and stoutly religious, eventhe sweeper-descended Goanese cook, the biggest thief of all, purginghis Christian soul on Sunday mornings by Confession, and fortifyinghimself against the temptations of the Evil One at early Mass). 

Between these _nowker log_, the servant-people, and his own _jat_ orclass, the _Sahib-log_, the master-people, were the troopers, splendidSikhs, Rajputs, Pathans and Punjabis, men of honour, courage, physique, tradition. Grand fighters, loyal as steel while properlyunderstood and properly treated--in other words, while properlyofficered. (Men, albeit, with deplorably little understanding of, orregard for, Pagett, M. P. , and his kind, who yearn to do so much forthem. )

These men Damocles admired and loved, though even _they_ were apt tobe very naughty in the bazaar, to gamble and to toy with opium, bhang, and (alleged) brandy, to dally with houris and hearts'-delights, touse unkind measures towards the good _bunnia_ and _sowkar_ who hadlent them monies, and to do things outside the Lines that were notknown in the Officers' Mess. 

The boy preferred the Rissaldar-Major even to some Sahibs of hisacquaintance--that wonderful old man-at-arms, horseman, _shikarri_, athlete, gentleman. (Yet how strange and sad to see him out of hissplendid uniform, in sandals, _dhotie_, untrammelled shirt-tails, dingy old cotton coat and loose _puggri_, undistinguishable from aschool-master, clerk, or post-man; so _un_-sahib-like. )

And what a fine riding-master he made for an ambitious, fearlessboy--though Ochterlonie Sahib said he was too cruel to be a good_horse_-master. 

How _could_ people be civilians and live away from regiments? Livewithout ever touching swords, lances, carbines, saddles?

What a queer feeling it gave one to see the regiment go past thesaluting base on review-days, at the gallop, with lances down. Onewanted to shout, to laugh--to _cry_. (It made one's mouth twitch andchin work. )

Oh, to _lead_ the regiment as Father did--horse and man one weldedpiece of living mechanism. 

Father said you couldn't ride till you had taken a hundred tosses, been pipped a hundred times. A hundred falls! Surely Father had_never_ been thrown--it must be impossible for such a rider to comeoff. See him at polo. 

By his sixth birthday Damocles de Warrenne, stout and sturdy, was anaccomplished rider and never so happy (save when fencing) as whenflogging his active and spirited little pony along the "rides" or overthe dusty _maidans_ and open country of Bimariabad. To receive aquarter-mile start on the race-course and ride a mile race againstKhodadad Khan on his troop-horse, or with one of the syces on one ofthe Colonel's polo-ponies, or with some obliging male or female earlymorning rider, was the joy of his life. Should he suspect thecompetitor of "pulling" as he came alongside, that the tiny pony mightwin, the boy would lash at both horses impartially. 

People who pitied him (and they were many) wondered as to how soon hewould break his neck, and remonstrated with his father for allowinghim to ride alone, or in charge of an attendant unable to control him. 

In the matter of his curious love of fencing Major John Decies wasdeeply concerned, obtained more and more details of his "dweam, "taught him systematically and scientifically to fence, bought himfoils and got them shortened. He also interested him in a series ofmuscle-developing exercises which the boy called his "dismountedsquad-dwill wiv'out arms, " and performed frequently daily, and withgusto. 

Lieutenant Lord Ochterlonie (Officers' Light-Weight Champion atAldershot) rigged him up a small swinging sand-bag and taught him topunch with either hand, and drilled him in foot-work for boxing. 

Later he brought the very capable ten-year-old son of a boxingTroop-Sergeant and set him to make it worth Dam's while to guardsmartly, to learn to keep his temper, and to receive a blow with agrin. 

(Possibly a better education than learning declensions, conjugations, and tables from a Eurasian "governess". )

He learnt to read unconsciously and automatically by repeating, afterNurse Beaton, the jingles and other letter-press beneath the picturesin the books obtained for him under Major Decies' censorship. 

On his sixth birthday, Major John Decies had Damocles over to hisbungalow for the day, gave him a box of lead soldiers and aschooner-rigged ship, helped him to embark them and sail them in thebath to foreign parts, trapped a squirrel and let it go again, allowedhim to make havoc of his possessions, fired at bottles with hisrevolver for the boy's delectation, shot a crow or two with arook-rifle, played an improvised game of fives with a tennis-ball, told him tales, and generally gave up the day to his amusement. Whathe did _not_ do was to repeat the experiment of a year ago, or makeany kind of reference to snakes.... 

A few days later, on the morning of the New-Year's-Day Review, ColonelMatthew de Warrenne once again strode up and down his verandah, arrayed in full review-order, until it should be time to ride to theregimental parade-ground. 

He had coarsened perceptibly in the six years since he had lost hiswife, and the lines that had grown deepest on his hard, handsome facewere those between his eyebrows and beside his mouth--the mouth of anunhappy, dissipated, cynical man.... 

He removed his right-hand gauntlet and consulted his watch.... Quarterof an hour yet. 

He continued the tramp that always reminded Damocles of the restless, angry to-and-fro pacing of the big bear in the gardens. Both fatherand the bear seemed to fret against fate, to suffer under a sense ofinjury; both seemed dangerous, fierce, admirable. Hearing the clinkand clang and creak of his father's movement, Damocles scrambled fromhis cot and crept down the stairs, pink-toed, blue-eyed, curly-headed, night-gowned, to peep through the crack of the drawing-room door athis beautiful father. He loved to see him in review uniform--so muchmore delightful than plain khaki--pale blue, white, and gold, in fullpanoply of accoutrement, jackbooted and spurred, and with the greatturban that made his English face look more English still. 

Yes--he would ensconce himself behind the drawing-room door and watch. Perhaps "Fire" would be bobbery when the Colonel mounted him, wouldget "what-for" from whip and spur, and be put over the compound wallinstead of being allowed to canter down the drive and out at thegate.... 

Colonel de Warrenne stepped into his office to get a cheroot. Re-appearing in the verandah with it in his mouth he halted and thrusthis hand inside his tunic for his small match-case. Ere he could usethe match his heart was momentarily chilled by the most blood-curdlingscream he had ever heard. It appeared to come from the drawing-room. (Colonel de Warrenne never lit the cheroot that he had put to hislips--nor ever another again. ) Springing to the door, one of adozen that opened into the verandah, he saw his son struggling on theground, racked by convulsive spasms, with glazed, sightless eyes andfoaming mouth, from which issued appalling, blood-curdling shrieks. Just above him, on the fat satin cushion in the middle of a lowsettee, a huge half-coiled cobra swayed from side to side in the Danceof Death. 

"_It's under my foot--it's moving--moving--moving out_, " shrieked thechild. 

Colonel de Warrenne attended to the snake first. He half-drew hissword and then slammed it back into the scabbard. No--his sword wasnot for snakes, whatever his son might be. On the wall was a trophy ofAfghan weapons, one of which was a sword that had played a prominentpart on the occasion of the Colonel's winning of the Victoria Cross. 

Striding to the wall he tore the sword down, drew it and, with raisedarm, sprang towards the cobra. A good "Cut Three" across the coilswould carve it into a dozen pieces. No. Lenore made that cushion--andLenore's cushion made more appeal to Colonel de Warrenne than didLenore's son. No. A neat horizontal "Cut Two, " just below the head, with the deadly "drawing" motion on it, would meet the case nicely. Swinging it to the left, the Colonel subconsciously placed the sword, "resting flat on the left shoulder, edge to the left, hand in front ofthe shoulder and square with the elbow, elbow as high as the hand, " asper drill-book, and delivered a lightning stroke--thinking as he didso that the Afghan _tulwar_ is an uncommonly well-balanced, handycutting-weapon, though infernally small in the hilt. 

The snake's head fell with a thud upon the polished boards between thetiger-skins, and the body dropped writhing and twitching on to thesettee. 

Damocles appeared to be dead. Picking him up, the callous-heartedfather strode out to where Khodadad Khan held "Fire's" bridle, handedhim to the orderly, mounted, received him again from the man, and, holding him in his strong right arm, cantered to the bungalow of MajorJohn Decies--since it lay on the road to the parade-ground. 

Would the jerking hurt the little beggar in his present comatosestate? Well, brats that couldn't stand a little jerking were betterdead, especially when they screamed and threw fits at the sight of acommon snake. 

Turning into Major Decies' compound and riding up to his porch, theColonel saw the object of his search, arrayed in pyjamas, seated inhis long cane chair beside a tray of tea, toast, and fruit, in theverandah. 

"Morning, de Warrenne, " he cried cheerily. 

"How's little--" and caught sight of the inanimate child. 

"Little coward's fainted after throwing a fit--over a common snake, "observed the Colonel coolly. 

"Give him here, " answered the Major, taking the boy tenderly in hisarms, --"and kindly--er--clear out. "

He did not wish to strike his friend and senior. How the black ragewelled up in his heart against the callous brute who had dared tomarry Lenore Seymour Stukeley. 

Colonel de Warrenne wheeled his horse without a word, and rode out ofMajor Decies' life and that of his son. 

Galloping to the parade-ground he spoke a few curt words to hisAdjutant, inspected the _rissala_, and then rode at its head to thebrigade parade-ground where it took up its position on the left flankof the Guns and the Queen's Greys, "sat at ease, " and awaited thearrival of the Chief Commissioner at the saluting-base. A BritishInfantry regiment marched to the left flank of the 118th (Bombay)Lancers, left-turned and stood at ease. Another followed and wasfollowed in turn by Native Infantry Regiments--grand Sikhs in scarlettunics, baggy black breeches and blue putties; hefty Pathans andBaluchis in green tunics, crimson breeches and high white gaiters, sturdy little Gurkhas in rifle-green, stalwart Punjabi Mahommedans. 

The great double line grew and grew, and stood patiently waiting, Horse, Foot, and Guns, facing the sun and a dense crowd of spectatorsranked behind the rope-encircled, guard-surrounded saluting-base overwhich flew the Flag of England. 

The Brigadier and his Staff rode on to the ground, were saluted bythe mile of troops, and took up their position. 

Followed the Chief Commissioner in his state carriage, accompanied bya very Distinguished Guest, and surrounded by his escort. The mile ofmen again came to attention and the review began. Guns boomed, massedbands played the National Anthem, the crackling rattle of the_feu-de-joie_ ran up the front rank and down the rear. 

After the inspection and the salutes came the march-past by theregiments. 

Now the Distinguished Visitor's wife had told the Chief Commissionerthat she "did not want to see the cavalry go past at the gallop as itraised such a dreadful dust". But her maid bungled, her toilettefailed, and she decided not to accompany her husband to the Review atall. Her husband, the Distinguished Visitor, _did_ desire to see thecavalry go past at the gallop, and so the Chief Commissioner'sDistinguished Visitor's wife's maid's bungling had a tremendousinfluence upon the fate of Damocles de Warrenne, as will be seen. 

Passed the massed Guns at the walk, followed by the Cavalry at thewalk in column of squadrons and the Infantry in column of companies, each unit saluting the Chief Commissioner by turning "eyes right" asit passed the spot where he sat on horseback surrounded by the civiland military staffs. 

Wheeling to the left at the end of the ground the Guns and Cavalryagain passed, this time at the trot, while the Infantry completed itscircular march to its original position. 

Finally the Cavalry passed for the third time, and now at the gallop, an orderly whirlwind, a controlled avalanche of men and horses, withlevelled lances, and the hearts of all men were stirred at one of themost stirring sights and sounds in the world--a cavalry charge. 

At the head of the leading squadron galloped Colonel de Warrenne, cool, methodical, keeping a distant flag-staff in line with a stillmore distant church spire, that he might lead the regiment in aperfectly straight line. (Few who have not tried it realize thedifficulty of leading a galloping line of men absolutely straight andat true right-angles to the line of their ranks. )

On thundered the squadrons unbending of rank, uncrowded, unopened, squadron-leaders maintaining distance, the whole mass as ordered, shapely, and precisely correct as when at the walk. 

Past the saluting-base thundered the squadrons and in full careerColonel de Warrenne's charger put his near fore into groundhoney-combed by insect, reptile, or burrowing beast, crashed on itshead, rolled like a shot rabbit, and Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrennelay dead--killed by his own sword. 

Like his ancestors of that fated family, he had died by the sword, butunlike them, he had died by the _hilt_ of it. 

Major John Decies, I. M. S. , Civil Surgeon of Bimariabad, executor ofthe will of the late Colonel de Warrenne and guardian of his son, cabled the sad news of the Colonel's untimely death to Sir GeraldSeymour Stukeley at Monksmead, he being, so far as Major Decies knew, the boy's only male relative in England--uncle of the late Mrs. DeWarrenne. 

The reply, which arrived in a day or two, appeared from its redundancyand incoherence to be the composition of Miss Yvette Seymour Stukeley, and bade Major Decies either send or bring the infant Damocles toMonksmead _immediately_. 

The Major decided to apply forthwith for such privilege-leave andfurlough as were due to him, and to proceed to England with the boy. It would be as well that his great-uncle should hear from him, personally, of the matter of the child's mental condition resultantupon the tragedy of his own birth and his mother's death. The Majorwas decidedly anxious as to the future in this respect--all might bewell in time, and all might be very far indeed from well. 

Nurse Beaton absolutely and flatly refused to be parted from hercharge, and the curious party of three set sail for England in duecourse. 

"Hm!--He's every inch a Stukeley, " remarked the General when Damoclesde Warrenne was ushered into his presence in the great library atMonksmead. "Hope he's Stukeley by nature too. Sturdy young fella!'Spose he's vetted sound in wind and limb?"

The Major replied that the boy was physically rather remarkablystrong, mentally very sound, and in character all that could bedesired. He then did his best to convey to the General anunderstanding of the psychic condition that must be a cause ofwatchfulness and anxiety on the part of those who guarded hisadolescence. 

At dinner, over the General's wonderful Clos Vougeot, the Major againreturned to the subject and felt that his words of advice fell uponsomewhat indifferent and uncomprehending ears. 

It was the General's boast that he had never feed a doctor in hislife, and his impression that a sound resort for any kind of invalidis a lethal chamber.... 

The seven years since the Major had last seen her, seemed to havedealt lightly with the sad-faced, pretty Miss Yvette, gentle, good, and very kind. Over the boy she rhapsodized to her own content and hisembarrassment. Effusive endearments and embraces were new to Dam, andhe appeared extraordinarily ignorant of the art of kissing. 

"Oh, how like his dear Father!" she would exclaim afresh every fewminutes, to the Major's slight annoyance and the General's plaindisgust. 

"Every inch a Stukeley!" he would growl in reply. 

But Yvette Seymour Stukeley had prayed for Colonel de Warrenne nightlyfor seven years and had idealized him beyond recognition. PossiblyFate's greatest kindness to her was to ordain that she should not seehim as he had become in fact, and compare him with her wondrous mentalimage.... The boy was to her, must be, should be, the very image ofher life's hero and beloved.... 

The depolarized and bewildered Damocles found himself in a strange andtruly foreign land, a queer, cold, dismal country inhabited by vastquantities of "second-class sahibs, " as he termed the British lowermiddle-class and poor, a country of a strange greenness andorderedness, where there were white servants, strangely conjoined rowsof houses in the villages, dangerous-looking fires inside the houses, a kind of tomb-stones on all house-tops, strange horse-drawn vehicles, butlerless and _ghari_[9]-less sahibs, and an utter absence of"natives, " sepoys, _byle-gharies_, [10] camels, monkeys, kites, squirrels, bulbuls, _minahs_, [11] mongooses, palm-trees, and temples. Cattle appeared to have no humps, crows to have black heads, and treesto have no fruit. The very monsoon seemed inextricably mixed with thecold season. Fancy the rains coming in the cold weather! Perhaps therewas no hot weather and nobody went to the hills in this strangecountry of strange people, strange food, strange customs. Nobodyseemed to have any tents when they left the station for the districts, nor to take any bedding when they went on tour or up-country. A queer, foreign land. 

But Monksmead was a most magnificent "bungalow" standing in a trulybeautiful "compound"--wherein the very _bhistis_[12] and _mallis_ wereEuropean and appeared to be second-class sahibs. 

Marvellous was the interior of the bungalow with its countless roomsand mountainous stair-cases (on the wall of one of which hung _theSword_ which he had never seen but instantly recognized) and its armyof white servants headed by the white butler (so like the Chaplain ofBimariabad in grave respectability and solemn pompousness) and itsextraordinary white "ayahs" or maids, and silver-haired Mrs. Pont, called the "house-keeper". Was she a _pukka_ Mem-Sahib or a_nowker_[13] or what? And how did she "keep" the house?

A wonderful place--but far and away the most thrilling and delightfulof its wonders was the little white girl, Lucille--Damocles' firstexperience of the charming genus. 

The boy never forgot his first meeting with Lucille. 

On his arrival at Monksmead he had been "vetted, " as he expressed it, by the Burra-Sahib, the General; and then taken to an attractive placecalled "the school-room" and there had found Lucille.... 

"Hullo! Boy, " had been her greeting. "What's your name?" He hadattentively scrutinized a small white-clad, blue-sashed maiden, withcurling chestnut hair, well-opened hazel eyes, decided chin, Greekmouth and aristocratic cheek-bones. A maiden with a look of blood andbreed about her. (He did not sum her up in these terms at the time. )

"Can you ride, Boy?"

"A bit. "

"Can you fight?"

"A bit. "

"Can you swim?"

"Not well. "

"_I_ can--ever so farther. D'you know French and German?"

"Not a word. "

"Play the piano?"

"Never heard of it. D'you play it with cards or dice?"

"Lucky dog! It's music. I have to practise an hour a day. "

"What for?"

"Nothing ... It's lessons. Beastly. How old are you?"

"Seven--er--nearly. "

"So'm I--nearly. I've got to be six first though. I shall have abirthday next week. A big one. Have you brought any ellyfunts fromIndia?"

"I've never seen a nellyfunt--only in pictures. "

A shudder shook the boy's sturdy frame. 

"Why do you go like that? Feel sick?"

"No. I don't know. I seemed to remember something--in a book. I dreamabout it. There's a nasty blue room with a mud floor. And _Something_. Beastly. Makes you yell out and you can't. You can't run away either. But the Sword dream is lovely. "

Lucille appeared puzzled and put this incoherence aside. 

"What a baby never to see ellyfunts! I've seen lots. Hundreds. Zoo. Circuses. Persessions. Camels, too. "

"Oh, I used to ride a camel every day. There was one in the compoundwith his _oont-wallah_, [14] Abdul Ghaffr; and Khodadad Khan used tobeat the _oont-wallah_ on cold mornings to warm himself. "

"What's an _oont-wallah_?"

"Don't you _know_? Why, he's just the _oont-wallah_, of course. Who'dgraze the camel or load it up if there wasn't one?"

At tea in the nursery the young lady suddenly remarked:--

"I like you, Boy. You're worth nine Haddocks. "

This cryptic valuation puzzled Damocles the more in that he had neverseen or heard of a haddock. Had he been acquainted with the fowl hemight have been yet more astonished. 

Later he discovered that the comparison involved the fat boy who satsolemnly stuffing on the other side of the table, his true baptismalname being Haddon. 

Yes, Lucille was a revelation, a marvel. 

Far quicker of mind than he, cleverer at games and inventing "makebelieve, " very strong, active, and sporting, she was the mostcharming, interesting, and attractive experience in his short buteventful life. 

How he loved to make her laugh and clap her hands! How he enjoyed herquaint remarks, speculations, fairy-tales and jokes. How he yearned towin her approval and admiration. How he strove to please her!

In Lucille and his wonderful new surroundings he soon forgot MajorDecies, who returned to live (and, at a ripe old age, to die) atBimariabad, where had lived and died the woman whom he had so trulyand purely loved. The place where he had known her was the only placefor him. 

On each of his birthdays Damocles received a long fatherly letter anda handsome present from the Major, and by the time he went away toschool at Wellingborough, he wondered who on earth the Major might be. 

To his great delight Damocles found that he was not doomed todiscontinue his riding, fencing, boxing, and "dismounted drill withoutarms". 

General Seymour Stukeley sent for a certain Sergeant Havlan (once atrooper in his own regiment), rough-rider, swordsman, and boxer, now aprofessional trainer, and bade him see that the boy learned all hecould teach him of arms and horsemanship, boxing, swimming, andgeneral physical prowess and skill. Lucille and Haddon Berners were tojoin in to the extent to which their age and sex permitted. 

The General intended his great-nephew to be worthy of his Stukeleyblood, and to enter Sandhurst a finished man-at-arms and horseman, andto join his regiment, Cavalry, of course, with nothing much to learnof sword, lance, rifle, revolver, and horse. 

Sergeant Havlan soon found that he had little need to begin at thebeginning with Damocles de Warrenne in the matter of riding, fencingor boxing, and was unreasonably annoyed thereat. 

In time, it became the high ambition and deep desire of Dam toovercome Sergeant Havlan's son in battle with the gloves. As youngHavlan was a year his senior, a trained infant prodigy, and destinedfor the Prize Ring, there was plenty for him to learn and to do. 

With foil or sabre the boy was beneath Dam's contempt. 

Daily the children were in Sergeant Havlan's charge for riding andphysical drill, Dam getting an extra hour in the evening for the moremanly and specialized pursuits suitable to his riper years. 

He and Lucille loved it all, and the Haddock bitterly loathed it. 

Until Miss Smellie came Dam was a happy boy--but for queer suddenspasms of terror of Something unknown; and, after her arrival, hewould have been well content could he have been assured of an earlyopportunity of attending her obsequies and certain of a long-postponedresurrection; well content, and often wildly happy (with Lucille) ... But for the curious undefinable fear of Something ... Something aboutwhich he had the most awful dreams ... Something in a blue room with amud floor. Something that seemed at times to move beneath his foot, making his blood freeze, his knees smite together, the sunlight turnto darkness.... 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE SWORD AND THE SOUL. 

One of the very earliest of all Dam's memories in after life--for in afew years he forgot India absolutely--was of _the Sword_ (that hung onthe oak-panelled wall of the staircase by the portrait of a cavalier), and of a gentle, sad-eyed lady, Auntie Yvette, who used to say:--

"Yes, sonny darling, it is more than two-hundred-and-fifty years old. It belonged to Sir Seymour Stukeley, who carried the King's Standardat Edgehill and died with that sword in his hand ... _You_ shall weara sword some day. "

(He did--with a difference. )

The sword grew into the boy's life and he would rather have owned itthan the mechanical steamboat with real brass cannon for which heprayed to God so often, so earnestly, and with such faith. On hisseventh birthday he preferred a curious request, which had curiousconsequences. 

"Can I take the sword to bed with me to-night, Dearest, as it is mybirthday?" he begged. "I won't hurt it. "

And the sword was taken down from the oak-panelled wall, cleaned, andlaid on the bed in his room. 

"Promise you will not try to take it out of the sheath, sonnydarling, " said the gentle, sad-eyed lady as she kissed him "Goodnight". 

"I promise, Dearest, " replied the boy, and she knew that she need haveno fear. 

He fell asleep fondling and cuddling the sword that had pierced thehearts of many men and defended the honour of many ancestors, anddreamed, with far greater vividness and understanding, the dream hehad so often dreamt before. 

Frequently as he dreamed it during his chequered career, it washenceforth always most vivid and real. It never never varied in theslightest detail, and he generally dreamed it on the night before someeventful, dangerful day on which he risked his life or fought for it. 

Of the early dreamings, of course, he understood little, but while hewas still almost a boy he most fully understood the significance ofevery word, act, and detail of the marvellous, realistic dream. 

It began with a view of a camp of curious little bell-tents aboutwhich strode remarkable, big-booted, long-haired, bedizenedmen--looking strangely effeminate and strangely fierce, with theirfeathered hats, curls, silk sashes, velvet coats, and with their longswords, cruel faces, and savage oaths. 

Some wore steel breastplates, like that of the suit of armour in thehall, and steel helmets. The sight of the camp thrilled the boy inhis dream, and yet he knew that he had seen it all before actually, and in real life--in some former life. 

Beside one of a small cluster of tents that stood well apart from therest sat a big man who instantly reminded the boy of his dread"Grandfather, " whom he would have loved to have loved had he beengiven the chance. 

The big man was even more strangely attired than those others whoclumped and clattered about the lower part of the camp. 

Fancy a great big strong man with long curls, a lace collar, and avelvet coat--like a kid going to a party!

The velvet coat had the strangest sleeves, too--made to button to theelbow and full of slits that seemed to have been mended underneathwith blue silk. There was a regular pattern of these silk-mended slitsabout the body of the coat, too, and funny silk-covered buttons. 

On his head the man had a great floppy felt hat with a huge feather--ahat very like one that Dearest wore, only bigger. 

One of his long curls was tied with a bow of ribbon--like youngLucille wore--and the boy felt quite uncomfortable as he noted it. Agrown man--the silly ass! And, yes! he had actually got lace round thebottoms of his quaint baggy knickerbockers--as well as lace cuffs!

The boy could see it, where one of the great boots had sagged downbelow the knee. 

Extraordinary boots they were, too. Nothing like "Grumper's"riding-boots. They were yellowish in colour, and dull, not nicelypolished, and although the square-toed, ugly foot part looked solid asa house, the legs were more like wrinkled leather stockings, and solong that the pulled-up one came nearly to the hip. 

Spurs had made black marks on the yellow ankles, and saddle andstirrup-leather had rubbed the legs.... 

And a sash! Whoever heard of a grown-up wearing a sash? It was a greatblue silk thing, wound round once or twice, and tied with a great bow, the ends of which hung down in front. 

Of all the Pip-squeaks!

And yet the big man's face was not that of a Pip-squeak--far from it. It was very like Grumper's in fact. 

The boy liked the face. It was strong and fierce, thin andclean-cut--marred only, in his estimation, by the funny little tuft ofhair on the lower lip. He liked the wavy, rough, up-turned moustache, but not that silly tuft. How nice he would look with his hair cut, hislower lip shaved, and his ridiculous silks, velvet, and lace exchangedfor a tweed shooting-suit or cricketing-flannels! How Grumper, Father, Major Decies, and even Khodadad Khan and the sepoys would have laughedat the get-up. Nay, they would have blushed for the fellow--a Sahib, agentleman--to tog himself up so!

The boy also liked the man's voice when he turned towards the tent andcalled:--

"Lubin, you drunken dog, come hither, " a call which brought forth aservant-like person, who, by reason of his clean-shaven face and rednose, reminded the boy of Pattern the coachman. 

He wore a dark cloth suit, cotton stockings, shoes that had neitherlaces nor buttons, but fastened with a kind of strap and buckle, and, queer creature, a big Eton collar!

"Sword and horse, rascal, " said the gentleman, "and warn Digby forduty. Bring me wine and a manchet of bread. "

The man bowed and re-entered the tent, to emerge a moment laterbearing _the Sword_. 

How the cut-steel hilt sparkled and shone! How bright and red theleather scabbard--now black, dull, cracked and crumbling. But it wasunmistakeably _the_ Sword. 

It hung from a kind of broad cross-belt and was attached to it byseveral parallel buckled straps--not like Father's Sam Browne belt atall. 

As the gentleman rose from his stool (he must have been over six feetin height) Lubin passed the cross-belt over his head and raised leftarm so that it rested on his right shoulder, and the Sword hung fromhip to heel. 

To the boy it had always seemed such a huge, unwieldy thing. At thisbig man's side it looked--just right. 

Lubin then went off at a trot to where long lines of bay horses pawedthe ground, swished their tails, tossed their heads, and fidgetedgenerally.... 

From a neighbouring tent came the sounds of a creaking camp-bed, twofeet striking the ground with violence, and a prodigious, prolongedyawn. 

A voice then announced that all parades should be held in Hell, andthat it was better to be dead than damned. Why should gentlemen drillon a fine evening while the world held wine and women?

After a brief space, occupied with another mighty yawn, it loudly andtunefully requested some person or persons unknown to superintend itsowner's obsequies. 

"Lay a garland on my hearseOf the dismal yew;Maidens, willow branches bear;Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firmFrom my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lieLightly, gentle earth.... "

"May it do so soon, " observed the tall gentleman distinctly. 

"What ho, without there! That you, Seymour, lad?" continued the voice. "Tarry a moment. Where's that cursed ... " and sounds of hasty searchamong jingling accoutrements were followed by a snatch of song ofwhich the boy instantly recognized the words. He had often heardDearest sing them. 

"Drink to me only with thine eyesAnd I will pledge with mine:Or leave a kiss within the cupAnd I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. "

Lubin appeared, bearing a funny, fat, black bottle, a black cup (bothappeared to be of leather), and a kind of leaden plate on which was asmall funnily-shaped loaf of bread. 

"'Tis well you want none, " observed the tall gentleman, "I had askedyou to help me crush a flask else, " and on the word the singer emergedfrom the tent. 

"Jest not on solemn subjects, Seymour, " he said soberly, "Wine maycarry me over one more pike-parade.... Good lad.... Here's to thee.... Why should gentlemen drill?... I came to fight for the King, not to... But, isn't this thy day for de Warrenne? Oh, ten million fiends!Plague and pest! And I cannot see thee stick him, Seymour ... " and thespeaker dashed the black drinking-vessel violently on the ground, having carefully emptied it. 

The boy did not much like him. 

His lace collar was enormous and his black velvet coat was embroideredall over with yellow silk designs, flowers, and patterns. It was likethe silly mantel-borders and things that Mrs. Pont, the housekeeper, did in her leisure time. ("Cruel-work" she called it, and the boyquite agreed. )

This man's face was pink and fair, his hair golden. 

"Warn him not of the hilt-thrust, Seymour, lad, " he said suddenly. "Give it him first--for a sneering, bullying, taverning, chamberingknave. "

The tall gentleman glanced at his down-flung cup, raised his eyebrows, and drank from the bottle. 

"Such _would_ annoy _you_, Hal, of course, " he murmured. 

A man dressed in what appeared to be a striped football jersey under aleather waistcoat and steel breast-plate, high boots and a steelhelmet led up a great horse. 

The boy loved the horse. It was very like "Fire". 

The gentleman (called Seymour) patted it fondly, stroked his nose, andgave it a piece of his bread. 

"Well, Crony Long-Face?" he said fondly. 

He then put his left foot in the great box-stirrup and swung himselfinto the saddle--a very different kind of saddle from those with whichthe boy was familiar. 

It reminded him of Circuses and the Lord Mayor's Show. It was bigenough for two and there was a lot of velvet and stuff about it and afine gold _C. R. _--whatever that might mean--on a big pretty clothunder it (perhaps the gentleman's initials were C. R. Just as his ownwere D. De W. And on some of his things). 

The great fat handle of a great fat pistol stuck up on each side ofthe front of the saddle. 

"Follow, " said the gentleman to the iron-bound person, and moved offat a walk towards a road not far distant. 

"Stap him! Spit him, Seymour, " called the pink-faced man, "and warnhim not of the hilt-thrust. "

As he passed the corner of the camp, two men with great axe-headedspear things performed curious evolutions with their cumbersomeweapons, finally laying the business ends of them on the ground as thegentleman rode by. 

He touched his hat to them with his switch. 

Continuing for a mile or so, at a walk, he entered a dense coppice anddismounted. 

"Await me, " he said to his follower, gave him the curb-rein, andwalked on to an open glade a hundred yards away. 

(It was a perfect spot for Red Indians, Smugglers, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe or any such game, the boy noted. )

Almost at the same time, three other men entered the clearing, twotogether, and one from a different quarter. 

"For the hundredth time, Seymour, lad, _mention not the hilt-thrust_, as you love me and the King, " said this last one quietly as heapproached the gentleman; and then the two couples behaved in aridiculous manner with their befeathered hats, waving them in greatcircles as they bowed to each other, and finally laying them on theirhearts before replacing them. 

"Mine honour is my guide, Will, " answered the gentleman calledSeymour, somewhat pompously the boy considered, though he did not knowthe word. 

Sir Seymour then began to remove the slashed coat and other garmentsuntil he stood in his silk stockings, baggy knickerbockers, and jollycambric shirt--nice and loose and free at the neck as the boy thought. 

He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or twopasses--like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing. 

The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhatsimilarly--talking together earnestly and one of them undressing. 

The one who did this was a very powerful-looking man and the arm hebared reminded the boy of that of a "Strong Man" he had seen recentlyat Monksmead Fair, in a tent, and strangely enough his face remindedhim of that of his own Father. 

He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like abounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and aswanky manner. The boy disapproved of him wholly. It was like hischeek to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name. 

His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying thestrong man's bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, bothhands, and his feet) said:--

"Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?"

Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as theother had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hiltfirst. 

It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and CaptainDelorme remarked that his Principal would waive that. 

He and the strong man's companion then chose a spot where the grasswas very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs orinequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sidewaysupon the combatants--who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their stockinged feet, to their respective positions. Facing eachother, they saluted with their swords and then stood with the rightarm pointing downwards and across the body so that the hilt of thesword was against the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear. 

"One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne, " said Sir Seymour as they pausedin this attitude. "If my point rests for a second on your hilt _youare a dead man_. "

Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:--

"And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley?"

"My design _was_ to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, SirMatthew. It _now_ is to kill you--for the insult, and on behalf of ... Your own unhappy daughter. "

The other yawned and remarked to his friend:--

"I have a parade in half an hour. "

"On guard, " cried the person addressed, drawing his sword andstriking an attitude. 

"Play, " cried Captain Delorme, doing similarly. 

Both principals crouched somewhat, held their swords horizontal, withpoint to the adversary's breast and hilt drawn back, arm sharplybent--for both, it appeared, had perfected the Art of Arts in Italy. 

These niceties escaped the boy in his earlier dreamings of thedream--but the time came when he could name every pass, parry, invitation, and riposte. 

The strong man suddenly threw his sword-hand high and towards his leftshoulder, keeping his sword horizontal, and exposing the whole of hisright side. 

Sir Seymour lunged hard for his ribs, beneath the right arm-pit and, as the other's sword swooped down to catch his, twist it over, andriposte, he feinted, cleared the descending sword, and thrust at thethroat. A swift ducking crouch let the sword pass over the strongman's head, and only a powerful French circular parry saved the lifeof Sir Seymour Stukeley. 

As the boy realized later, he fought Italian in principle, and usedthe best of French parries, ripostes, and tricks, upon occasion--andhis own perfected combination of the two schools made him, accordingto Captain Delorme, the best fencer in the King's army. So at leastthe Captain said to the other second, as they amicably chatted whiletheir friends sought to slay each other before their hard, indifferent-seeming eyes. 

To the boy their talk conveyed little--as yet. 

The duellists stepped back as the "phrase" ended, and then Sir Seymourgave an "invitation, " holding his sword-arm wide to the right of hisbody. Sir Matthew lunged, his sword was caught, carried out to theleft, and held there as Sir Seymour's blade slid inward along it. Justin time, Sir Matthew's inward pressure carried Sir Seymour's swordclear to the right again. Sir Matthew disengaged over, and, as thesudden release brought Sir Seymour's sword springing in, he thrustunder that gentleman's right arm and scratched his side. 

As he recovered his sword he held it for a moment with the pointraised toward Sir Seymour's face. Instantly Sir Seymour's pointtinkled on his hilt, and Captain Delorme murmured "Finis" beneath hisbreath. 

Sir Stukeley Seymour's blade shot in, Sir Matthew's moved to parry, and the point of the advancing sword flickered under his hand, turnedupward, and pierced his heart. 

"Yes, " said Captain Delorme, as the stricken man fell, "if he parriesoutward the point goes under, if he anticipates a feint it comesstraight in, and if he parries a lunge-and-feint-under, he getsfeint-over before he can come up. I have never seen Stukeley miss whenonce he rests on the hilt. _Exit_ de Warrenne--and Hell the worse forit----" and the boy awoke. 

He kissed the sword and fell asleep again. 

One day, when receiving his morning fencing and boxing lessons ofSergeant Havlan, he astonished that warrior (and made a bitter enemyof him) by warning him against allowing his blade to rest on theSergeant's hilt, and by hitting him clean and fair whenever it wasallowed to happen. Also, by talking of "the Italian school of fence"and of "invitations"--the which were wholly outside thefencing-philosophy of the French-trained swordsman. At the age offifteen the boy was too good for the man who had been the best thatAldershot had known, who had run a _salle d'armes_ for years, and whowas much sought by ambitious members of the Sword Club. 

The Sword, from the day of that newly vivid dream, became to the boywhat his Symbol is to the religious fanatic, and he was content to sitand stare at it, musing, for hours. 

The sad-eyed, sentimental lady encouraged him and spoke of Knights, Chivalry, Honour, _Noblesse Oblige_, and Ideals such as the nineteenthcentury knew not and the world will never know again. 

"Be a real and true Knight, sonny darling, " she would say, "and liveto _help_. Help women--God knows they need it. And try to be able tosay at the end of your life, 'I have never made a woman weep'. Yes--bea Knight and have 'Live pure, Speak true, Right wrong' on your shield. Be a Round Table Knight and ride through the world bravely. Your dearFather was a great swordsman. You may have the sword down and kiss it, the first thing every morning--and you must salute it every night asyou go up to bed. You shall wear a sword some day. "

(Could the poor lady but have foreseen!)

She also gave him over-copiously and over-early of her simple, fervent, vague Theology, and much Old and New Testament History, withthe highest and noblest intentions--and succeeded in implanting a deepdistrust and dislike of "God" in his acutely intelligent mind. 

To a prattling baby, _Mother_ should be God enough--God and all theangels and paradise in one ... (but he had never known a mother andNurse Beaton had ever been more faithfully conscientious in deed thantenderly loving in manner). 

She filled his soul with questionings and his mouth with questionswhich she could not answer, and which he answered for himself. Thequestions sometimes appalled her. 

If God so loved the world, why did He let the Devil loose in it?

If God could do _anything_, why didn't He lay the Devil out with onehand?

If He always rewarded the Good and punished the Bad, why was Dearestso unhappy, and drunken Poacher Iggulsby so very gay and prosperouslynaughty?

He knew too that his dead Father had not been "good, " for he heardservant-talk, and terrible old "Grandfather" always forgot that"Little Pitchers have Long Ears". 

If God always answered devout and faith-inspired prayer, why did Henot

1. Save Caiaphas the cat when earnestlyprayed for--having been run over byPattern in the dog-cart, coming out ofthe stables?

2. Send the mechanical steam-boat so longand earnestly prayed for, with Faith andBelief?

3. Help the boy to lead a higher and a betterlife, to eat up his crusts and fat as directed, to avoid chivvying the hens, inking hisfingers, haunting the stables, stealinggreen apples in the orchard, tearing hisclothes, and generally doing evil withfire, water, mud, stones and other temptingand injurious things?

And was it entirely decent of God to be eternally spying on a fellow, as appeared to be His confirmed habit?

As for that awful heart-rending Crucifixion, was that the sort ofthing for a Father to look on at.... As bad as that brutal old Abrahamwith Isaac his son ... Were _all_ "Good" Fathers like that ... ?

And nightmare dreams of Hell--a Hell in which there was a_Snake_--wrought no improvement. 

And the Bible! How strangely and dully they talked, and what people!That nasty Jacob and Esau business, those horrid Israelites, theUnfaithful Steward; the Judge who let himself be pestered intoaction; those poor unfortunate swine that were made to rush violentlydown the steep place into the sea; Ananias and Sapphira. No--not anice book at all. 

The truth is that Theology, at the age of seven, is notcommendable--setting aside the question of whether (at any age)Theology is a web of words, ritual, dogma, tradition, invention, shibboleth; a web originally spun by interested men to obscure Godfrom their dupes. 

So the boy worshipped Dearest and distrusted and disliked the God shegave him, a big sinister bearded Man who hung spread-eagled above theworld, covering the entire roof of the Universe, and watched, watched, watched, with unwinking, all-seeing eye, and remembered withunforgetting, unrelenting mind. Cruel. Ungentlemanly. _Jealous!_ Cold. 

Also the boy fervently hoped it might never be his lot to go toHeaven--a shockingly dreary place where it was always Sunday and onemust, presumably, be very quiet except when singing hymns. A placetenanted by white-robed Angels, unsympathetic towards dirty-facedlittle sinners who tore their clothes. Angels, cold, superior, unhuggable, haughty, given to ecstatic throes, singers of _Hallelujah_and other silly words--always _praising_. 

How he loathed and dreaded the idea of Dearest being an Angel! Fancysweet Dearest or his own darling Lucille with silly wings (like abeastly goose or turkey in dear old Cook's larder), with a longtrumpet, perhaps, in a kind of night-gown, flying about the place, itwasn't decent at all--Dearest and Lucille, whom he adored andhugged--unsympathetic, cold, superior, unhuggable, haughty; and theboy who was very, _very_ tender-hearted, would throw his arms roundDearest's neck and hug and hug and hug, for he abhorred the thought ofher becoming a beastly angel. 

Surely, if God knew His business, Dearest would be always happy andbright and live ever so long, and be ever so old, forty years andmore. 

And Dearest, fearing that her idolized boy might grow up a manlike--well, like "Grumper" had been--hard, quarrelsome, adventurous, flippant, wicked, pleasure-loving, drunken, Godless ... Redoubled herefforts to Influence-the-child's-mind-for-good by means of theTestaments and Theology, the Covenant, the Deluge, Miracles, theImmaculate Conception, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, Pentecost, Creeds, Collects, Prayers. 

And the boy's mind weighed these things deliberately, pondered them, revolted--and rejected them one and all. 

Dearest had been taken in.... 

He said the prayers she taught him mechanically, and when he felt theneed of real prayer--(as he did when he had dreamed of the Snake)--healways began, "If you _are_ there, God, and _are_ a good, kind God"... And concluded, "Yours sincerely, Damocles de Warrenne". 

He got but little comfort, however, for his restless and logical mindasked:--

"If God _knows_ best and will surely _do_ what is best, why botherHim? And if He does not and will not, why bother yourself?"

But Dearest succeeded, at any rate, in filling his young soul with alove of beauty, romance, high adventure, honour, and all physical, mental, and moral cleanliness. 

She taught him to use his imagination, and she made books a necessity. She made him a gentleman in soul--as distinct from a gentleman inclothes, pocket, or position. 

She gave him a beautiful veneration for woman that no other woman wascapable of destroying--though one or two did their best. Then thesad-eyed lady was superseded and her professional successor, MissSmellie, the governess, finding the boy loved the Sword, asked Grumperto lock it away for the boy's Good. 

Also she got Grumper to dismiss Nurse Beaton for impudence and not"knowing her place". 

But Damocles entered into an offensive and defensive alliance withLucille, on whom he lavished the whole affection of his deeply, ifundemonstratively, affectionate nature, and the two "hunted incouples, " sinned and suffered together, pooled their resources andtheir wits, found consolation in each other when harried by MissSmellie, spent every available moment in each other's society and, like the Early Christians, had all things in common. 

On birthdays, "high days and holidays" he would ask "Grumper" to lethim have the Sword for an hour or two, and would stand with it in hishand, rapt, enthralled, ecstatic. How strange it made one feel! Howbrave, and anxious to do fine deeds. He would picture himself bearingan unconscious Lucille in his left arm through hostile crowds, whilewith the Sword he thrust and hewed, parried and guarded.... Who couldfear _anything_ with the Sword in his hand, the Sword of the Dream!How glorious to die wielding it, wielding it in a good cause ... Preferably on behalf of Lucille, his own beloved little pal, staunch, clever, and beautiful. And he told Lucille tales of the Sword and ofhow he loved it!

CHAPTER V. 

LUCILLE. 

"If you drinks a drop more, Miss Lucy, you'll just go like my poreyoung sister goed, " observed Cook in a warning voice, as Lucillepaused to get her second wind for the second draught. 

(Lucille had just been tortured at the stake by Sioux andBlackfeet--thirsty work on a July afternoon. )

"And how did she go, Cookie-Bird--_Pop?_" inquired Lucille politely, with round eyes, considering over the top of the big lemonade-flagonas it rose again to her determined little mouth. 

"No, Miss Lucy, " replied Cook severely. "Pop she did not. She swole... Swole and swole. "

"You mean 'swelled, ' Cookoo, " corrected Lucille, inclined to be alittle didactic and corrective at the age of ten. 

"Well, she were _my_ sister after all, Miss Lucy, " retorted Cook, "andperhaps I may, or may not, know what she done. _I_ say she swole--andwhat is more she swole clean into a dropsy. All along of drinkingwater.... _Drops_ of water--_Dropsy_. "

"Never drink water, " murmured Dam, absentmindedly annexing, andpocketing, an apple. 

"Ah, water, but you see this is lemonade, " countered Lucille. "Home-made, too, and not--er--gusty. It doesn't make you go----" andhere it is regrettable to have to relate that Lucille made ashockingly realistic sound, painfully indicative of the condition ofone who has imbibed unwisely and too well of a gas-impregnated liquor. 

"No more does water in my experiants, " returned Cook, "and I was notallooding to wulgarity, Miss Lucy, which you should know better thanto do such. My pore young sister's systerm turned watery and theytapped her at the last. All through drinking too much water, whichlemonade ain't so very different either, be it never so 'ome-made.... Tapped 'er they did--like a carksk, an' 'er a Band of 'Oper, BlueRibander, an' Sunday Schooler from birth, an' not departin' from itwhen she grew up. Such be the Ways of Providence, " and Cook sighedwith protestive respectfulness.... 

"Tapped 'er systerm, they did, " she added pensively, and with a littlejustifiable pride. 

"Were they hard taps?" inquired Lucille, reappearing from behind theflagon. "I hate them myself, even on the funny-bone or knuckles--buton the _cistern!_ Ugh!"

"_Hard_ taps; they was _silver_ taps, " ejaculated Cook, "and drawedgallings and gallings--and nothing to laugh at, Master Dammicles, neether.... So don't you drink no more, Miss Lucy. "

"I can't, " admitted Lucille--and indeed, to Dam, who regarded his"cousin" with considerable concern, it did seem that, even as Cook'spoor young sister of unhappy memory, Lucille had "swole"--though onlylocally. 

"Does _beer_ make you swell or swole or swellow when you swallow, Cooker?" he inquired; "because, if so, _you_ had better be--" but hewas not allowed to conclude his deduction, for cook, bridling, bristling, and incensed, bore down upon the children and swept themfrom her kitchen. 

To the boy, even as he fled _via_ a dish of tartlets and cakes, itseemed remarkable that a certain uncertainty of temper (and figure)should invariably distinguish those who devote their lives to theobviously charming and attractive pursuit of the culinary art. 

Surely one who, by reason of unfortunate limitations of sex, age, ability, or property, could not become a Colonel of Cavalry couldstill find infinite compensation in the career of cook orrailway-servant. 

Imagine, in the one case, having absolute freedom of action withregard to raisins, tarts, cream, candy-peel, jam, plum-puddings andcakes, making life one vast hamper, and in the other case, boundlessopportunity in the matter of leaping on and off moving trains, carrying lighted bull's-eye lanterns, and waving flags. 

One of the early lessons that life taught him, without troubling toexplain them, and she taught him many and cruel, was that Cooks areCross. 

"What shall we do now, Dam?" asked Lucille, and added, "Let's raidthe rotten nursery and rag the Haddock. Little ass! Nothing else todo. How I _hate_ Sunday afternoon.... No work and no play. Rotten. "

The Haddock, it may be stated, owed his fishy title to the fact thathe once possessed a Wealthy Relative of the name of Haddon. Withfar-sighted reversionary intent his mother, a Mrs. Berners _née_Seymour Stukeley, had christened him Haddon. 

But the Wealthy Relative, on being informed of his good fortune, hadbluntly replied that he intended to leave his little all to thefounding of Night-Schools for illiterate Members of Parliament, Travelling-Scholarships for uneducated Cabinet Ministers, andDeportment Classes for New Radical Peers. He was a Funny Man as wellas a Wealthy Relative. 

And, thereafter, Haddon Berners' parents had, as Cook put it, "up anddied" and "Grandfather" had sent for, and adopted, the orphan Haddock. 

Though known to Dam and Lucille as "The Haddock" he was in reality anutter Rabbit and esteemed as such. A Rabbit he was born, a Rabbit helived, and a Rabbit he died. Respectable ever. Seen in the RightPlace, in the Right Clothes, doing the Right Thing with the RightPeople at the Right Time. 

Lucille was the daughter of Sylvester Bethune Gavestone, the late andlamented Bishop of Minsterbury (once a cavalry subaltern), a school, Sandhurst, and life-long friend of "Grandfather, " and husband of"Grandfather's" cousin, Geraldine Seymour Stukeley. 

Poor "Grandfather, " known to the children as "Grumper, " the ferociousold tyrant who loved all mankind and hated all men, with him adoptionwas a habit, and the inviting of other children to stay as long asthey liked with the adopted children, a craze. 

And yet he rarely saw the children, never played with them, and hatedto be disturbed. 

He had out-lived his soldier-contemporaries, his children, his powerto ride to hounds, his pretty taste in wine, his fencing, dancing, flirting, and all that had made life bearable--everything, as he said, but his gout and his liver (and, it may be added, except hisferocious, brutal temper). 

"Yes.... Let us circumvent, decoy, and utterly destroy the commonHaddock, " agreed Dam. 

The entry into the nursery was an effective night-attack by Blackfeet(not to mention hands) but was spoilt by the presence of Miss Smelliewho was sitting there knitting relentlessly. 

"Never burst into rooms, children, " she said coldly. "One expectslittle of a boy, but a _girl_ should try to appear a Young Lady. Comeand sit by me, Lucille. What did you come in for--or rather for whatdid you burst in?"

"We came to play with the Haddock, " volunteered Dam. 

"Very kind and thoughtful of you, I am sure, " commented Miss Smelliesourly. "Most obliging and benevolent, " and, with a sudden change torighteous anger and bitterness, "Why don't you speak the truth?"

"I am speaking the truth, Miss--er--Smellie, " replied the boy. "We didcome to play with the dear little Haddock--like one plays with afootball or a frog. I didn't say we came for Haddock's _good_. "

"We needed the Haddock, you see, Miss Smellie, " confirmed Lucille. 

"How many times am I to remind you that Haddon Berners' name _is_Haddon, Lucille, " inquired Miss Smellie. "Why must you always prefervulgarity? One expects vulgarity from a boy--but a girl should try toappear a Young Lady. "

With an eye on Dam, Lucille protruded a very red tongue at surprisinglength, turned one eye far inward toward her nose, wrinkled thatmember incredibly, corrugated her forehead grievously, and elongatedher mouth disastrously. The resultant expression of countenanceadmirably expressed the general juvenile view of Miss Smellie and allher works. 

Spurred to honourable emulation, the boy strove to excel. Using bothhands for the elongation of his eyes, the extension of his mouth, andthe depression of his ears, he turned upon the Haddock so horrible amask that the stricken child burst into a howl, if not into actualtears. 

"What's the matter, Haddon?" demanded Miss Smellie, looking up withquick suspicion. 

"Dam made a _fathe_ at me, " whimpered the smitten one. 

"Say 'made a grimace' not 'made a face, '" corrected Miss Smellie. "Only God can make _faces_. "

Dam exploded. 

"At what are you laughing, Damocles?" she asked sternly. 

"Nothing, Miss Smellie. What you said sounded rather funny and alittle irrevilent or is it irrembrant?"

"Damocles! Should _I_ be likely to say anything Irreverent? Should _I_ever dream of Irreverence? What _can_ you mean? And never let me seeyou make faces again. "

"I didn't let you see me, Miss Smellie, and only God can make faces--"

"Leave the room at once, Sir, I shall report your impudence to yourgreat-uncle, " hissed Miss Smellie, rising in wrath--and the badabandoned boy had attained his object. Detention in the nursery for aSunday afternoon was no part of his programme. 

Most unobtrusively Lucille faded away also. 

"_Isn't_ she a hopeless beast, " murmured she as the door closed. 

"Utter rotter, " admitted the boy. "Let's slope out into the garden anddig some worms for bait. "

"Yes, " agreed Lucille, and added, "Parse _Smellie, _" whereupon, withone voice and heart and purpose the twain broke into a paean, not ofpraise--a kind of tribal lay, and chanted:--

"_Smellie_--Very common noun, absurd person, singular back number, tutor gender, objectionable case governed by the word _I_, " and so _dacapo_. 

And yet the poor lady strove to do her duty in that station of life inwhich it had pleased Providence (or a drunken father) to placeher--and to make the children "genteel". Had she striven to win theirlove instead, her ministrations might have had some effect (other thaninfinite irritation and bitter dislike). 

She was the Compleat Governess, on paper, and all that a personentrusted with the training of young children should not be, inreality. She had innumerable and admirable testimonials from variousemployers of what she termed "aristocratic standing"; endlesscertificates that testified unto her successful struggles in Music, Drawing, Needlework, German, French, Calisthenics, Caligraphy, andother mysteries, including the more decorous Sciences (againstPhysiology, Anatomy, Zoology, Biology, and Hygiene she set her face assubjects apt to be, at times, improper), and an appearance and mannerthemselves irrefragible proofs of the highest moral virtue. 

She also had the warm and unanimous witness of the children atMonksmead that she was a Beast. 

To those who frankly realize with open eyes that the student of lifemust occasionally encounter indelicacies upon the pleasant path ofresearch, it may be revealed, in confidence, that they alluded toMiss Smellie as "Sniffy" when not, under extreme provocation, as"Stinker". 

She taught them many things and, prominently, Deceit, Hate, and anutter dislike of her God and her Religion--a most disastrous pair. 

Poor old "Grumper"; advertising, he got her, paid her highly, and gaveher almost absolute control of the minds, souls, and bodies of hisyoung wards and "grandchildren". 

"The best of everything" for them--and they, at the average age ofeight, a band of depressed, resentful babes, had "hanged, drawed, andquartered" her in effigy, within a month of coming beneath her stonyministrations. 

In appearance Miss Smellie was tall, thin, and flat. Most exceedinglyand incredibly flat. Impossibly flat. Her figure, teeth, voice, hair, manner, hats, clothes, and whole life and conduct were flat asEuclid's plane-surface or yesterday's champagne. 

To counter-balance the possession, perhaps, of so many virtues, gifts, testimonials, and certificates she had no chin, no eyebrows, and noeyelashes. Her eyes were weak and watery; her spectacles strong andthick; her nose indeterminate, wavering, erratic; her ears large, herteeth irregular and protrusive, her mouth unfortunate and notguaranteed to close. 

An ugly female face is said to be the index and expression of an uglymind. It certainly was so in the case of Miss Smellie. Not that shehad an evil or vicious mind in any way--far from it, for she was anarrowly pious and dully conscientious woman. Her mind was ugly as auseful building may be very ugly--or as a room devoid of beautifulfurniture or over-crowded with cheap furniture may be ugly. 

And her mind was devoid of beautiful thought-furniture, andover-crowded with cheap and ugly furniture of text-book facts. She wasan utterly loveless woman, living unloving, and unloved--a terriblecondition. 

One _could not_ like her. 

Deadly dull, narrow, pedantic, petty, uninspiring, Miss Smellie'sideals, standards, and aims were incredibly low. 

She lived, and taught others to live, for appearances. 

The children were so to behave that they might appear "genteel". Ifthey were to do this or that, no one would think they were youngladies or young gentlemen. 

"If we were out at tea and you did that, I _should_ be ashamed, " shewould cry when some healthy little human licked its jarnmy fingers, and "_Do_ you wish to be considered vulgar or a little gentleman, Damocles?"

Damocles was profoundly indifferent on the point and said so plainly. 

They were not to be clean of hand for hygienic reasons--but for fearof what people might "think"; they were not to be honourable, gentle, brave and truthful because these things are fine--but because of whatthe World might dole out in reward; they were not to eat slowly andmasticate well for their health's sake--but by reason of "goodmanners"; they were not to study that they might develop their powersof reasoning, store their minds, and enlarge their horizons--but thatthey might pass some infernal examination or other, _ad majoremSmelliae gloriam_; they were not to practise the musical art that theymight have a soul-developing aesthetic training, a means of solace, delight, and self-expression--but that they might "play their piece"to the casual visitor to the school-room with priggish pride, expectant of praise; they were not to be Christian for any otherreason than that it was the recommended way to Eternal Bliss and aGood Time Hereafter--the whole duty of canny and respectable man beingto "save his soul" therefore. 

Her charges were skilfully, if unintentionally, trained in hypocrisyand mean motive, to look for low reward and strive for paltry ends--todo what looked well, say what sounded well, to be false, veneered, ungenuine. 

And Miss Smellie was giving them the commonly accepted "education" oftheir class and kind. 

The prize product of the Smellie system was the Haddock whose wholelife was a pose, a lie, a refusal to see the actual. Perhaps sheinfluenced him more strongly than the others because he was caughtyounger and was of weaker fibre. Anyhow he grew up the perfect andheartless snob, and by the time he left Oxford, he would sooner havebeen seen in a Black Maria with Lord Snooker than in a heavenlychariot with a prophet of unmodish garment and vulgar ancestry. 

To the finished Haddock, a tie was more than a character, and the cutof a coat more than the cutting of a loving heart. 

To him a "gentleman" was a person who had the current accent andwaistcoat, a competence, the entree here and there--a goer unto thecorrect places with the correct people. Manners infinitely more thanconduct; externals everything; let the whitening be white and thesepulchre mattered not. 

The Haddock had no bloodful vice, but he was unstable as water andcould not excel, a moral coward and weakling, a liar, a borrower ofwhat he never intended to return, undeniably and incurably mean, thecomplete parasite. 

From the first he feared and blindly obeyed Miss Smellie, propitiatedwhile loathing her; accepted her statements, standards, and beliefs;curried favour and became her spy and informer. 

"What's about the record cricket-ball throw, Dam?" inquired Lucille, as they strolled down the path to the orchard and kitchen-garden, hot-houses, stream and stables, to seek the coy, reluctant worm. 

"Dunno, " replied the boy, "but a hundred yards wants a lot of doing. "

"Wonder if _I_ could do it, " mused Lucille, picking up a temptingegg-shaped pebble, nearly as big as her fist, and throwing it withremarkably neat action (for a girl) at the first pear-tree over thebridge that spanned the trout-stream. 

_At_, but not into. 

With that extraordinary magnetic attraction which glass has for themissile of the juvenile thrower, the orchid-house, on the oppositeside of the path from the pear-tree, drew the errant stone to itshospitable shelter. 

Through the biggest pane of glass it crashed, neatly decapitated arare, choice exotic, the pride of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, released from its hold a hanging basket, struck a largepot (perched high in a state of unstable equilibrium), and passed outon the other side with something accomplished, something done, to earna long repose. 

So much for the stone. 

The descending pot lit upon the edge of one side of the big glassaquarium, smashed it, and continued its career, precipitating anavalanche of lesser pots and their priceless contents. 

The hanging basket, now an unhung and travelling basket, heavy, iron-ribbed, anciently mossy, oozy of slime, fell with neat exactitudeupon the bald, bare cranium of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, headgardener, and dour, irascible child and woman hater. 

"Bull's-eye!" commented Dam--always terse when not composingfairy-tales. 

"Crikey!" shrieked Lucille. "That's done it, " and fled straightway toher room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but forsalvation, from consequences. (What's the good of Saying your Prayersif you can't look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?)

The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to seeas he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandishing an implement ofhis trade. 

"Ye'll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fowerdays syne, " opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streakedhead, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille'seffort. 

When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood tosay he'd give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have thepersonal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestinedand fore-doomed Child of Sin, that--

Dam pocketed his hands and said but:--

"_Havers_, Mon Sandy!"

"I'll tak' the hide fra y'r bones yet, ye feckless, impident--"

Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:--

"_Clavers_, Mon Sandy!"

"I'll _see_ ye skelped onny-how--or lose ma job, ye--"

More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:--

"_Hoots_, Mon Sandy!"

"I'll go straight to y'r Grandfer the noo, and if ye'r not flayedalive! Aye! I'll gang the noo to Himself----"

"_Wi' fower an twanty men, an' five an' thairrty pipers_, " suggestedDam in tuneful song. 

Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did--sworeviolently. 

"_Do you think at your age it is right_?" quoted the wicked boy ... The exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy. 

The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all hisimperfections on his head and face and neck. 

Taking no denial from Butterson, he forced his way into the presenceof his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice--or theacceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years inthe ane place. 

"Grandfather, " roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociouslyangry, sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan's cane. 

"What's the meaning of this, Sir, " he roared as Dam, cool, smiling, friendly ever, entered the Sanctum. "What the Devil d'ye mean by it, eh? Wreckin' my orchid-houses, assaultin' my servants, waking me up, annoying ME! Seven days C. B. [15] and bread and water, on each count. What d'ye mean by it, ye young hound? Eh? Answer me before I have yeflogged to death to teach ye better manners! Guilty or Not Guilty? andI'll take your word for it. "

"The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective withfearful impact, Sir, " replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquotingfrom his latest fiction (and calling it a "parry-bowler, " to"Grandfather's" considerable and very natural mystification). 

"_What?_" roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishmentand wrath. 

"No. It's _ob_jective, " corrected Dam. "Yes. With fearful impact. Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy. "

"Grandfather" flushed and smiled a little wryly. 

"You'd favour _me_ with pleasantries too, would you? I'll reciprocateto the best of my poor ability, " he remarked silkily, and his mouthset in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulsebeat beneath his cheek-bone. 

"A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant, " he added, turningto Sergeant Havlan. 

"Coat off, Sir, " remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy whocould touch him almost as he would with the foil. 

Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to thesmiter and assumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders withtense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before.... 

The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant's best and he was a master. Theboy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale.... His mouthgrew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a littlemuscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone. 

"And what do you think of _my_ pleasantries, my young friend?"inquired Grandfather. "Feeling at all witty _now_?"

"Havlan is failing a bit, Sir, " was the cool reply. "I have noticed itat fencing too--Getting old--or beer perhaps. I scarcely felt him andso did not see or feel the point of your joke. "

"Grandfather's" flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly. "Tryand do yourself justice, Havlan, " he said. "'Nother dozen. 'Totherway. "

Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpass himself. Itwas a remarkably sound dozen. 

He mopped his brow. 

The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid, slightly hunched attitude, as though he had not counted the seconddozen and expected another stroke. 

"Let that be a lesson to you to curb your damned tongue, " said"Grandfather, " his anger evaporating, his pride in the stiff-necked, defiant young rogue increasing. 

The boy changed not the rigid, slightly hunched attitude. 

"Be pleased to wreck no more of my orchid-houses and to exercise yourgreat wit on your equals and juniors, " he added. 

Dam budged not an inch and relaxed not a muscle. 

"You may go, " said "Grandfather".... "Well--what are you waiting for?"

"I was waiting for Sergeant Havlan to _begin_, " was the reply. "Ithought I was to have a second dozen. "

With blazing eyes, bristling moustache, swollen veins and bared teeth, "Grandfather" rose from his chair. Resting on one stick he struck andstruck and struck at the boy with the other, passion feeding on itsown passionate acts, and growing to madness--until, as the headgardener and Sergeant rushed forward to intervene, Dam fell to theground, stunned by an unintentional blow on the head. 

"Grandfather" stood trembling.... "_Quite_ a Stukeley, " observed he. "Oblige me by flinging his carcase down the stairs. "

"'Angry Stookly's mad Stookly' is about right, mate, wot?" observedthe Sergeant to the gardener, quoting an ancient local saying, as theycarried Dam to his room after dispatching a groom for Dr. Jones ofMonksmead. 

"Dammy Darling, " whispered a broken and tear-stained voice outsideDam's locked and keyless door the next morning, "are you dead yet?"

"Nit, " was the prompt reply, "but I'm starving to death, fast. "

"I am so glad, " was the sobbed answer, "for I've got some flat food topush under the door. "

"Shove it under, " said Dam. "Good little beast!"

"I didn't know anything about the fearful fracass until tea-time, "continued Lucille, "and then I went straight to Grumper and confessed, and he sent me to bed on an empty stummick and I laid upon it, the bedI mean, and howled all night, or part of it anyhow. I howled for yoursake, not for the empty stummick. I thought my howls would break or atleast soften his hard heart, but I don't think he heard them. I'm surehe didn't, in fact, or I should not have been allowed to howl so loudand long.... Did he blame you with anger as well as injustice?"

"With a stick, " was the reply. "What about that grub?"

"I told him you were an innocent unborn babe and that Justice had hada mis-carriage, but he only grinned and said you had got C. B. And drybread for insilence in the Orderly Room. What is 'insilence'?"

"Pulling Havlan's leg, I s'pose, " opined Dam. "What about that _grub_?There comes a time when you are too hungry to eat and then you die. I--"

"Here it is, " squealed Lucille, "don't go and die after all mytrouble. I've got some thin ice-wafer biscuits, sulphur tablets, thincheese, a slit-up apple and three sardines. They'll all come under thedoor--though the sardines may get a bit out of shape. I'll come afterlessons and suck some brandy-balls here and breathe through thekey-hole to comfort you. I could blow them through the key-hole whenthey are small too. "

"Thanks, " acknowledged Dam gratefully, "and if you could tie some upand a sausage and a tart or two and some bread-and-jam and somechicken and cake and toffee and things in a handkerchief, and climb onto the porch with Grumper's longest fishing-rod, you might be able torelieve the besieged garrison a lot. If the silly Haddock were anygood he could fire sweets up with a catapult. "

"I'd try that too, " announced Lucille, "but I'd break the windows. Ifeel I shall never have the heart to throw a stone or anything again. My heart is broken, " and the penitent sinner groaned in deep travailof soul. 

"Have you eaten everything, Darling? How do you feel?" she suddenlyasked. 

"Yes. Hungrier than ever, " was the reply. "I like sulphur tablets withsardines. Wonder when they'll bring that beastly dry bread?"

"If there's a sulphur tablet left I could eat one myself, " saidLucille. "They are good for the inside and I have wept mine sore. "

"Too late, " answered Dam. "Pinch some more. "

"They were the last, " was the sad rejoinder. "They were for Rover'scoat, I think. Perhaps they will make your coat hairy, Dam. I meanyour skin. "

"Whiskers to-morrow, " said Dam. 

After a pregnant silence the young lady announced:--

"Wish I could hug and kiss you, Darling. Don't you?... I'll write akiss on a piece of paper and push it under the door to you. Betterthan spitting it through the key-hole. "

"Put it on a piece of _ham_, --more sense, " answered Dam. 

The quarter-inch rasher that, later, made its difficult entry, pulledfore and pushed aft, was probably the only one in the whole history ofHam that was the medium of a kiss--located and indicated by means of acopying-ink pencil and a little saliva. 

Before being sent away to school at Wellingborough Dam had a verycurious illness, one which greatly puzzled Dr. Jones of Monksmeadvillage, annoyed Miss Smellie, offended Grumper, and worried Lucille. 

Sitting in solitary grandeur at his lunch one Sabbath, sipping his oldChambertin, Grumper was vexed and scandalized by a series ofblood-curdling shrieks from the floor above his breakfast-room. Butterson, dispatched in haste to see "who the Devil was being killedin that noisy fashion, " returned to state deferentially as how MasterDamocles was in a sort of heppipletic fit, and foaming at the mouth. They had found him in the General's study where he had been reading abook, apparently; a big Natural History book. 

A groom was galloping for Dr. Jones and Mrs. Pont was doin' herpossible. 

No. Nothing appeared to have hurt or frightened the younggentleman--but he was distinctly 'eard to shout: "_It is under myfoot. It is moving--moving--moving out_.... " before he becameunconscious. 

No, Sir. Absolutely nothing under the young gentleman's foot. 

Dr. Jones could shed no light and General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeleyhoped to God that the boy was not going to grow up a wretchedepileptic. Miss Smellie appeared to think the seizure a judgment uponan impudent and deceitful boy who stole into his elders' rooms intheir absence and looked at their books. 

Lucille was troubled in soul for, to her, Damocles confessed theghastly, terrible, damning truth that he was a Coward. He said that hehad hidden the fearful fact for all these years within his guiltybosom and that now it had emerged and convicted him. He lived insubconscious terror of the Snake, and in its presence--nay even inthat of its counterfeit presentment--he was a gibbering, lunaticcoward. Such, at least, was her dimly realized conception resultantupon the boy's bald, stammering confession. 

But how could her dear Dammy be a _coward_--the vilest thing on earth!He who was willing to fight anyone, ride anything, go anywhere, actanyhow. Dammy the boxer, fencer, rider, swimmer. Absurd! Think of theday "the Cads" had tried to steal their boat from them when they weresailing it on the pond at Revelmead. There had been five of them, twobig and three medium. Dam had closed the eye of one of them, cut thelip of another, and knocked one of the smaller three weeping into thedust. 

They had soon cleared off and flung stones until Dam had startedrunning for them and then they had fled altogether. 

Think of the time when she set fire to the curtains. Why, he feared nobull, no dog, no tramp in England. 

A coward! Piffle. 

And yet he had screamed and kicked and cried--yes _cried_--as he hadshouted that it was under his foot and moving out. Rum! _Very_ rum!

On the day that Dam left Monksmead for school Lucille wept till shecould weep no more. Life for the next few years was one ofintermittent streaks of delirious joy and gloomy grief, vacation timewhen he was at Monksmead and term time when he was at school. All therest of the world weighed as a grain of dust against her hero, Dam. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE SNAKE'S "MYRMIDON". 

For a couple of years and more, in the lower School at Wellingborough, Damocles de Warrenne, like certain States, was happy in that he had nohistory. In games rather above the average, and in lessons ratherbelow it, he was very popular among his fellow "squeakers" for hisgood temper, modesty, generous disposition, and prowess at footballand cricket. 

Then, later, dawned the day when from this comfortable high estate acommon adder, preserved in spirits of wine, was the cause of hisdownfall and Bully Harberth the means of his reinstatement.... 

One afternoon Mr. Steynker, the Science Master, for some reason andwithout preliminary mention of his intent, produced a bottled specimenof a snake. He entered the room with the thing under his arm andpartly concealed by the sleeve of his gown. Watching him as heapproached the master's desk and spoke with Mr. Colfe, theform-master, Dam noted that he had what appeared to be a long oblongglass box of which the side turned towards him was white and opaque. 

When Mr. Steynker stepped on to the dais, as Mr. Colfe took up hisbooks and departed, he placed the thing on the desk with the otherside to the class.... 

And there before Dam's starting, staring eyes, fastened to the whiteback of the tall glass box, and immersed in colourless liquid was theTerror. 

He rose, gibbering, to his feet, pale as the dead, and pointed, mopping and mowing like an idiot. 

How should a glass box restrain the Fiend that had made his life aHell upon earth? What did Steynker and Colfe and these others--allgaping at him open-mouthed--know of the Devil with whom he hadwrestled deep beneath the Pit itself for ten thousand centuries ofhorror--centuries whose every moment was an aeon?

What could these innocent men and boys know of the living Damnationthat made him pray to die--provided only that he could be _really_dead and finished, beyond all consciousness and fear. The fools!... Tothink that it was a harmless, concrete thing. It would emerge in amoment like the Fisherman's Geni from the Brass Bottle and grow as bigas the world. He felt he was going mad again. 

"Help!" he suddenly shrieked. "_It is under my foot. It is moving ... Moving ... Moving out_. " He sprang to his astounded friend, Delorme, and screamed to him for help--and then realizing that there was _no_help, that neither man nor God could save him, he fled from the roomscreaming like a wounded horse. 

Rushing madly down the corridor, falling head-long down the stonestairs, bolting blindly across the entrance-hall, he fled until(unaware of his portly presence up to the moment when he reboundedfrom him as a cricket-ball from a net) he violently encountered theHead. 

Scrambling beneath his gown the demented boy flung his arms around themassy pillar of the Doctor's leg, and prayed aloud to him for help, between heart-rending screams. 

Now it is undeniable that no elderly gentleman, of whatsoever positionor condition, loves to be butted violently upon a generous lunch as hemakes his placid way to his arm-chair, cigar, book, and ultimatepleasant doze. If he be pompous by profession, precise by practice, dignified as a duty, a monument of most stately correctness and, tosmall boys and common men, a great and distant, if tiny, God--he maybe expected to resent it. 

The Doctor did. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he struck thesobbing, gasping child twice, and then endeavoured to remove him bythe ungentle application of the untrammelled foot, from the leg towhich, limpet-like, he clung. 

To Dam the blows were welcome, soothing, reassuring. Let a hundredHeads flog him with two hundred birch-rods, so they could keep himfrom the Snake. What are mere blows?

Realizing quickly that something very unusual was in the air, theworthy Doctor repented him of his haste and, with what dignity hemight, inquired between a bleat and a bellow:--

"What is the matter, my boy? Hush! Hush!"

"The Snake! The Snake!" shrieked Dam. "Save me! Save me! _It is undermy foot! It is moving ... Moving ... Moving out_, " and clung thetighter. 

The good Doctor also moved with alacrity--but saw no snake. He wasexceedingly perturbed, between a hypothetical snake and an all tooactual lunatic boy. 

Fortunately, "Stout" (so called because he was Porter), passing thebig doors without, was attracted by the screams. 

Entering, he hastened to the side of the agitated Head, and, with somedifficulty, untied from that gentleman's leg, a small boy--but notuntil the small boy had fainted.... 

When Dam regained consciousness he had a fit, recovered, and foundhimself in the Head's study, and the object of the interested regardof the Head, Messrs. Colfe and Steynker, the school medico, and theporter. 

It was agreed (while the boy fought for his sanity, bit his hand forthe reassuring pleasure of physical pain, and prayed for help to theGod in whom he had no reason to believe) that the case was "veryunusual, very curious, v-e-r-y interesting indeed". Being healthierand stronger than at the time of previous attacks, Dam more or lessrecovered before night and was not sent home. But he had fallen fromhis place, and in the little republics of the dormitory andclass-room, he was a thing to shun, an outcast, a disgrace to thenoble race of Boy. 

Not a mere liar, a common thief, a paltry murderer or vulgarparricide--but a COWARD, a blubberer, a baby. Even Delorme, more insorrow than in anger, shunned his erstwhile bosom-pal, and went aboutas one betrayed. 

The name of "Funky Warren" was considered appropriate, and even theHaddock, his own flesh and blood, and most junior of "squeakers, "dared to apply it!.... 

The infamy of the Coward spread abroad, was talked of in other Houses, and fellows made special excursions to see the cry-baby, who funked adead snake, a blooming bottled, potted, dead snake, and who hadblubbed aloud in his terror. 

And Bully Harberth of the Fifth, learning of these matters, revolvedin his breast the thought that he who fears dead serpents must, evenmore, fear living bullies, put Dam upon his list as a safe and pliantclient, and thereby (strange instrument of grace!) gave him the chanceto rehabilitate himself, clear the cloud of infamy from about hishead, and live a bearable life for the rest of his school career.... 

One wet Wednesday afternoon, as Dam, a wretched, forlorn Ishmael, satalone in a noisy crowd, reading a "penny horrible" (admirable, stimulating books crammed with brave deeds and noble sentiments ifnot with faultless English) the Haddock entered the form-room, followed by Bully Harberth. 

"That's him, Harberth, by the window, reading a penny blood, " said theHaddock, and went and stood afar off to see the fun. 

Harberth, a big clumsy boy, a little inclined to fat, with small eyes, heavy low forehead, thick lips, and amorphous nose, lurched over towhere Dam endeavoured to read himself into a better and brighter worldinhabited by Deadwood Dick, Texas Joe, and Red Indians of no mannersand nasty customs. 

"I want you, Funky Warren. I'm going to torture you, " he announcedwith a truculent scowl and a suggestive licking of blubber lips. 

Dam surveyed him coolly. 

Of thick build, the bully was of thicker wit and certainly of noproven courage. Four years older than Dam and quite four inchestaller, he had never dreamed of molesting him before. Innumerable aswere the stories of his brutalities to the smallest "squeakers" and ofhis cruel practical jokes on new boys, there were no stories of hisfighting, such as there were about Ormond Delorme, of Dam's form, whose habit it was to implore bigger boys of their courtesy to fighthim, and to trail his coat where there were "chaws" about. 

"I'm going to torture you, Funky. Every day you must come to me and_beg_ me to do it. If you don't come and pray for it I'll come to_you_ and you'll get it double and treble. If you sneak you'll get itquadru--er--quadrupedal--and also be known as Sneaky as well as Funky. See?" he continued. 

"How will you torture me, Harberth, please?" asked Dam meekly, as hemeasured the other with his eye, noted his puffiness, short reach, andinward tendency of knee. 

"Oh! lots of ways, " was the reply. "Dry shaves, tweaks, scalpers, twisters, choko, tappers, digs, benders, shinners, windos, all sorts. "

"I don't even know what they are, " moaned Dam. 

"Poor Kid!" sympathized the bully, "you soon will, though. Dry shavesare beautiful. You die dotty in about five minutes if I don't see fitto stop. Twisters break your wrists and you yell the roof off--orwould do if I didn't gag you first with a cake of soap and a towel. Tappers are very amusing, too, for me that is--not for you. They aredone on the side of your knee with a cricket stump. Wonderful how kidshowl when you understand knee-treatment. Choko is good too. Makes youblack in the face and your eyes goggle out awful funny. Done with asilk handkerchief and a stick. Windos and benders go together andreally want two fellows to do it properly. I hit you in the wind andyou double up, and the other fellow un-doubles you from behind--with acane--so that I can double you up again. Laugh! I nearly died overyoung Berners. Shinners, scalpers, and tweaks are good too--jollygood!... But of course all this comes after lamming and tunding.... Come along with me.... "

"Nit, " was Dam's firm but gentle reply, and a little pulse began tobeat beneath his cheek bone. 

"Oh! Ho!" smiled Master Harberth, "then I'll _begin_ here, and whenyou're broke and blubbing you'll come with me--and get just double fora start. "

Dam's spirits rose and he felt almost happy--certainly far better thanhe had done since the hapless encounter with the bottled adder and hisfall from grace. It was a positive, _joy_ to have an enemy he couldtackle, a real flesh-and-blood foe and tormentor that came upon him inbroad daylight and in mere human form. 

After countless thousands of centuries of awful nightmarestruggling--in which he was bound hand-and-foot and doomed to failureand torture from the outset, the sport, plaything, and victim of afearful, intangible Horror--this would be sheer amusement andrecreation. What could mere man do to _him_, much less mere boy! Why, the most awful torture-chamber of the Holy Inquisition of old was apleasant recreation-room compared with _any_ place where the Snakecould enter. 

Oh, if the Snake could only be met and fought in the open with freehands and untrammelled limbs, as Bully Harberth could!

Oh, if it could only inflict mere physical pain instead of suchagonies of terror as made the idea of any bodily injury--mere cutting, burning, beating, blinding--a trifling nothing-at-all. Anyhow, hecould _imagine_ that Bully Harberth was the Snake or Its emissary and, since he was indirectly brought upon him by the Snake, regard him as amyrmidon--and deal with him accordingly.... 

"How do you like this?" inquired that young gentleman as he suddenlyseized the seated and unsuspecting Dam by the head, crushed him downwith his superior weight and dug cruelly into the sides of his neck, below the ears, with his powerful thumb and fingers. "It is called'grippers'. You'll begin to enjoy it in a minute. " ... In a fewseconds the pain became acute and after a couple of minutes, excruciating. 

Dam kept absolutely still and perfectly silent. 

To Harberth this was disappointing and after a time he grew tired. Releasing his impassive victim he arose preparatory to introducing thenext item of his programme of tortures. 

"How do you like _this_?" inquired Dam rising also--and he smote histormentor with all his strength beneath the point of his chin. Rage, pain, rebellion, and undying hatred (of the Snake) lent such force tothe skilful blow--behind which was the weight and upward spring of hisbody--that Bully Harberth went down like a nine-pin, his big headstriking the sharp edge of a desk with great violence. 

He lay still and white with closed eyes. "Golly, " shrilled theHaddock, "Funky Warren has murdered Bully Harberth. Hooray! Hooray!"and he capered with joy. 

A small crowd quickly collected, and, it being learned from credibleeye-witnesses that the smaller boy had neither stabbed the bully inthe back nor clubbed him from behind, but had well and truly smittenhim on the jaw with his fist, he went at one bound from despisedoutcast coward to belauded, admired hero. 

"You'll be hung, of course, Warren, " said Delorme. 

"And a jolly good job, " replied Dam, fervently and sincerely. 

As he spoke, Harberth twitched, moved his arms and legs, and openedhis eyes. 

Sitting up, he blinked owl-like and inquired as to what was up. 

"You are down is what's up, " replied Delorme. 

"Oh--he's not dead, " squeaked the Haddock, and there was a piteousbreak in his voice. 

"What's up?" asked Harberth again. 

"Why, Funky--that is to say, Warren--knocked you out, and you've gotto give him best and ask for _pax_, or else fight him, " said Delorme, adding hopefully, "but of course you'll fight him. "

Harberth arose and walked to the nearest seat. 

"He hit me a 'coward's poke' when I wasn't looking, " quoth he. "It'swell known he is a coward. "

"You are a liar, Bully Harberth, " observed Delorme. "He hit you fair, and anyhow he's not afraid of _you_. If you don't fight him you becomeFunky Harberth _vice_. Funky Warren--no longer Funky. So you'd betterfight. See?" The Harberth bubble was evidently pricked, for thesentiment was applauded to the echo. 

"I don't fight cowards, " mumbled Harberth, holding his jaw--and, atthis meanness, Dam was moved to go up to Harberth and slap him righthard upon his plump, inviting cheek, a good resounding blow that madehis hand tingle with pain and his heart with pleasure. 

He still identified him somehow with the Snake, and had a glorious, ifpassing, sensation of successful revolt and some revenge. 

He felt as the lashed galley-slave must have felt when, during alower-deck mutiny, he broke from his oar and sprang at the throat ofthe cruel overseer, the embodiment and source of the agony, starvation, toil, brutality, and hopeless woe that had thrust himbelow the level of the beasts (fortunate beasts) that perish. 

"Now you've _got_ to fight him, of course, " said Delorme, and fled tospread the glad tidings far and wide. 

"I--I--don't feel well now, " mumbled Harberth. "I'll fight him whenI'm better, " and shambled away, outraged, puzzled, disgusted. What wasthe world coming to? The little brute! He had a punch like the kick ofa horse. The little cad--to _dare_! Well, he'd show him something ifhe had the face to stand up to his betters and olders and biggers inthe ring.... 

News of the affair spread like wild-fire, and the incredible conductof the extraordinary Funky Warren--said to be no longer Funky--becamethe topic of the hour. 

At tea, Dam was solemnly asked if it were true that he had castHarberth from a lofty window and brought him to death's door, or thatof the hospital; whether he had strangled him with the result that hehad a permanent squint; if he had so kicked him as to break both histhigh bones; if he had offered to fight him with one hand. 

Even certain more or less grave and reverend seniors of the upperschool took a well-disguised interest in the matter and pretended thatthe affair should be allowed to go on, as it would do Harberth a lotof good if de Warrenne could lick him, and do the latter a lot of goodto reinstate himself by showing that he was not really a coward inessentials. Of course they took no interest in the fight as a fight. Certainly not (but it was observed that Flaherty of the Sixth stoppedthe fight most angrily and peremptorily when it was over, and that nosign of anger or peremptoriness escaped him until it was over--and hehappened to pass behind the gymnasium, curiously enough, just as itstarted).... 

Good advice was showered upon Dam from all sides. He was counselled tolive on meat, to be a vegetarian, to rise at 4 a. M. And swim, to avoidall brain-fag, to run twenty miles a day, to rest until the fight, toget up in the night and swing heavy dumb-bells, to eat no pudding, todrink no tea, to give up sugar, avoid ices, and deny himself all"tuck" and everything else that makes life worth living. 

He did none of these things--but simply went on as usual, save in onerespect. 

For the first time since the adder episode, he was really happy. Why, he did not know, save that he was about to "get some of his own back, "to strike a blow against the cruel coward Incubus (for he persisted inidentifying Harberth with the Snake and in regarding him as amaterialization of the life-long Enemy), and possibly to enjoy a brieftriumph over what had so long triumphed over him. 

If he were at this time a little mad the wonder is that he was stillon the right side of the Lunatic Asylum gates. 

Mad or not, he was happy--and the one thing wanting was the presenceof Lucille at the fight. How he would have loved to show her that hewas not really a coward--given a fair chance and a tangible foe. 

If only Lucille could be there--dancing from one foot to the other, and squealing. (Strictly _between_, and not during, the rounds, ofcourse. )

"Buck up, Dammy! Ginger for pluck! Never say croak!"

A very large and very informal committee took charge of the businessof the fight, and what was alluded to as "a friendly boxing contestbetween Bully Harberth of the Fifth and de Warrenne--late Funky--" wasarranged for the following Saturday afternoon. On being asked by adelegate of the said large and informal committee as to whether hewould be trained by then or whether he would prefer a more distantdate, Dam replied that he would be glad to fight Harberth that verymoment--and thus gained the reputation of a fierce and determinedfellow (though erstwhile "funky"--the queer creature). 

Those who had been loudest in dubbing him Funky Warrenne were quickestin finding explanations of his curious conduct and explained it wellaway. 

It was at this time that Dam's heart went wholly and finally out toOrmonde Delorme who roundly stated that his father, a bemedalledheroic Colonel of Gurkhas, was "in a blind perishing funk" during athunderstorm and always sought shelter in the wine cellar when one wasin progress in his vicinity. 

Darn presented Delorme with his knife and a tiger's tooth forthwith. Saturday came and Dam almost regretted its advent, for, though a childin years, he was sufficiently old, weary, and cynical in spirit toknow that all life's fruit contains dust and ashes, that the joys ofanticipation exceed those of realization, and that with possessiondies desire. 

With the fight would end the glorious feeling of successful revolt, and if he overcame one emissary of the Snake there would be a millionmore to take his place. 

And if Providence should be, as usual, on the side of the "bigbattalions, " and the older, taller, stronger, heavier boy should win?Why--then he would bully the loser to his heart's content and thelimit of his ingenuity. 

Good! Let him! He would fight him every day with the greatestpleasure. A chance to fight the Snake on fair terms was all heasked.... 

Time and place had been well chosen and there was little likelihood ofinterference. 

Some experienced youth, probably Cokeson himself, had madearrangements as to seconds, time-keeper, judges, and referee; and, though there was no ring of ropes and stakes, a twenty-four-footsquare had been marked out and inclosed by forms and benches. Seatingwas provided for the "officials" and seniors, and two stools for theprincipals. A couple of bowls of water, sponges, and towels lent abusiness-like air to the scene. 

To his delight, Dam discovered that Delorme was to be his second--aperson of sound advice, useful ministrations, and very present help intime of trouble.... 

Delorme led him to his stool in an angle of the square of benches, bade him spread wide his arms and legs and breathe deeply "for all hewas worth, with his eyes closed and his thoughts fixed on jollythings". 

Feeling himself the cynosure of neighbouring eyes and able to hearthe comments of the crowd, the last part of his second's instructionswas a little difficult of strict observation. However, he continued tothink of licking Harberth--the "jolliest" thing he could conceive, until his mind wandered home to Lucille, and he enhanced the imaginaryjollity by conceiving her present.... "Sturdy little brute, " observeda big Fifth Form boy seated with a couple of friends on the benchbeside him, "but I'd lay two to one in sovs. (if I had 'em) that hedoesn't last a single round with Harberth". 

"Disgrace to Harberth if he doesn't eat the kid alive, " responded theother. 

"Got a good jaw and mouth, though, " said the third. "Going to diehard, you'll see. Good little kid. "

"Fancy funking a bottled frog or something and fighting a chap who cangive him about four years, four inches, and four stone, " observed thefirst speaker. 

"Yes. Queer little beast. He knocked Harberth clean out, they say. Perhaps his father has had him properly taught and he can really box. Ever seen him play footer? Nippiest little devil _I_ ever saw. Staunchtoo. Rum go, " commented his friend. 

Dam thought of Sergeant Havlan and his son, the punching-ball, and thefighting days at Monksmead. Perhaps he could "really" box, after all. Anyhow he knew enough to hit straight and put his weight into it, toguard chin and mark, to use his feet, duck, dodge, and side step. Suppose Harberth knew as much? Well--since he was far stronger, taller, and heavier, the only hope of success lay in the fact that hewas connected with the Snake--from whom mere blows in the open wouldbe welcome. 

Anyhow he would die or win. 

The positive joy of fighting _It_ in the glorious day and open air, instead of in the Bottomless Pit--bound, stifled, mad with Fear--nonecould realize.... 

Bully Harberth entered the ring accompanied by Shanner, who lookedlike a Sixth Form boy and was in the Shell. 

Harberth wore a thick sweater and looked very strong and heavy. 

"If the little kid lasts three rounds with _that_" observed Cokeson toCoxe Major, "he ought to be chaired. "

Dam was disposed to agree with him in his heart, but he had no fear. The feeling that _his_ brief innings had come--after the Snake had hadIts will of him for a dozen years--swallowed up all other feelings. 

Coxe Major stepped into the ring. "I announce a friendly boxingcontest between Harberth of the Fifth, nine stone seven, and FunkyWarren (said to be no longer Funky) of Barton's House, weight notworth mentioning, " he declaimed. 

"Are the gloves all right, " called Cokeson (whose father ownedracehorses, was a pillar of the National Sporting Club, and deeplyinterested in the welfare of a certain sporting newspaper). 

"No fault can be found with Warren's gloves, " said Shanner, comingover to Dam. 

"There's nothing wrong with the gloves here, " added Delorme, aftervisiting Harberth's corner. 

This was the less remarkable in that there were no gloves whatsoever. 

Presumably the fiction of a "friendly boxing contest" was to bestoutly maintained. The crowd of delighted boys laughed. 

"Then come here, both of you, " said Cokeson. 

The combatants complied. 

"Don't hold and hit. Don't butt nor trip. Don't clinch. Don't useknee, elbow, nor shoulder. When I call 'Break away, ' break withouthitting. If you do any of these things you will be jolly welldisqualified. Fight fair and God have mercy on your souls. " To Dam itseemed that the advice was superfluous--and of God's mercy on his soulhe had had experience. 

Returning to their corners, the two stripped to the waist and satready, arrayed in shorts and gymnasium shoes. 

Seen thus, they looked most unevenly matched, Harberth looking stillbigger for undressing and Dam even smaller. But, as the knowing CoxeMajor observed, what there was of Dam was in the right place--and wasmuscle. Certainly he was finely made. 

"Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_" called the time-keeper and Damsprang to his feet and ran at Harberth who swung a mighty round-armblow at his face as Dam ducked and smote him hard and true just belowthe breast-bone and fairly on the "mark ". 

The bully's grunt of anguish was drowned in howls of "Shake hands!""They haven't shaken hands!"

"Stop! Stop the fight, " shouted Cokeson, and as they backed from eachother he inquired with anger and reproach in his voice:--

"Is this a friendly boxing-contest or a vulgar fight?" adding, "Get toyour corners and when _Time_ is called, shake hands and then begin. "

Turning to the audience he continued in a lordly and injured manner:"And there is only _one_ Referee, gentlemen, please. Keep silence or Ishall stop the fight--I mean--the friendly boxing contest. "

As Dam sat down Delorme whispered:--

"Splendid! _In_fighting is your tip. Duck and go for the body everytime. He knows nothing of boxing I should say. Tire him--and rememberthat if he gets you with a swing like that you're out. "

"Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_" called the time-keeper and Damwalked towards Harberth with outstretched hand, met him in the middleof the ring and shook hands with great repugnance. As Harberth's handleft Dam's it rose swiftly to Dam's face and knocked him down. 

"Shame! Foul poke! Coward, " were some of the indignant cries thatarose from the spectators. 

"Silence, " roared the referee. "_Will_ you shut up and be quiet. Perfectly legitimate--if not very sporting. "

Dam sprang to his feet, absolutely unhurt, and, if possible, moredetermined than ever. It was only because he had been standing withfeet together that he had been knocked down at all. Had he been giventime to get into sparring position the blow would not have moved him. Nor was Harberth himself in an attitude to put much weight behind theblow and it was more a cuff than a punch. 

Circling round his enemy, Dam sparred for an opening and watched hisstyle and methods. 

Evidently the bully expected to make short work of him, and he carriedhis right fist as though it were a weapon and not a part of his body. 

As he advanced with his right extended, quivering, menacing, andpoised for a knock-out blow, his left did not appear in the matter atall. 

Suddenly he aimed his fist at Dam like a stone and with great force. Dam side-stepped and it brushed his ear; with his right he smote withall his force upon Harberth's ribs and with his left he drove at hiseye as he came up. Both blows were well and truly laid and with goodsounding thuds that seemed to delight the audience. 

Bully Harberth changed his tactics and advanced upon his elusiveopponent with his left in the position of guard and his right drawnback to the arm-pit. Evidently he was going to hold him off with theone and smash him with the other. Not waiting for him to develop hisattack, but striking the bully's left arm down with his own left, Damhit over it with his right and reached his nose and--so curious arethe workings of the human mind--thought of Moses striking the rock andbringing forth water. 

The sight of blood seemed to distress Harberth and, leaping in as thelatter drew his hand across his mouth, Dam drove with all his strengthat his mark and with such success that Harberth doubled up and fetchedhis breath with deep groans. Dam stood clear and waited. 

Delorme called out, "You've a right to finish him, " and was sternlyreproved by the referee. 

As Harberth straightened up, Dam stepped towards him, but the bullyturned and ran to his stool. As he reached it amid roars of execrationthe time-keeper arose and cried "_Time!_"

"You had him, you little ass, " said Delorme, as he squeezed a spongeof water on Dam's head. "Why on earth didn't you go in and finishhim?"

"It didn't seem decent when he was doubled up, " replied Dam. 

"Did it seem decent his hitting you while you shook hands?" returnedthe other, beginning to fan his principal with a towel. 

"Anyhow he's yours if you go on like this. Keep your head and don'tworry about his. Stick to his body till you have a clear chance at thepoint of his jaw. "

"Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_" cried the time-keeper. 

This round was less fortunate for the smaller boy. Harberth's secondhad apparently given him some good advice, for he kept his markcovered and used his left both to guard and to hit. 

Also he had learned something from Dam, and, on one occasion as thelatter went at his face with a straight left, he dropped the top ofhis head towards him and made a fierce hooking punch at Dam's body. Luckily it was a little high, but it winded him for a moment, and hadhis opponent rushed him then, Dam could have done nothing at all. 

Just as "Time" was called, Harberth swung a great round-arm blow atDam which would have knocked him head over heels had not he let hisknees go just in time and ducked under it, hitting his foe once againon the mark with all his strength. 

"How d'you feel?" asked Delorme as Dam went to his stool. 

"Happy, " said he. 

"Don't talk piffle, " was the reply. "How do you feel? Wind all right?Groggy at all?"

"Not a bit, " said Dam. "I am enjoying it. "

And so he was. Hitherto the Snake had had him bound and helpless. Asit pursued him in nightmares, his knees had turned to water, greatchains had bound his arms, devilish gags had throttled him, he couldnot breathe, and he had not had a chance to escape nor to fight. Hecould not even scream for help. He could only cling to a shelf. _Now_he had a chance. His limbs were free, his eyes were open, he couldbreathe, think, act, defend himself and _attack_. 

"Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_" called the time-keeper and Delormeceased fanning with the towel, splashed a spongeful of water in Dam'sface and backed away with his stool. 

Harberth seemed determined to make an end. 

He rushed at his opponent whirling his arms, breathing stertorously, and scowling savagely. 

Guarding hurt Dam's arms, he had no time to hit, and in ducking he wasslow and got a blow (aimed at his chin) in the middle of his forehead. Down he went like a nine-pin, but was up as quickly, and ready forHarberth who had rushed at him in the act of rising, while the refereeshouted "Stand clear". 

As he came on, Dam fell on one knee and drove at his mark again. 

Harberth grunted and placed his hands on the smitten spot. 

Judging time and distance well, Dam hit with all his force at thebully's chin and he went down like a log. 

Rising majestically, the time-keeper lifted up his voice and counted:"_One--two--three--four--five--six"_--and Harberth opened his eyes, sat up, "_seven--eight--nine_"--and lay down again; and just as Damwas about to leap for joy and the audience to roar theirapproval--instead of the fatal "_OUT_" the time-keeper called"_Time_". 

Had Dam struck the blow a second sooner, the fight would have beenover and he would have won. As it was, Harberth had the whole intervalin which to recover. Dam's own luck! (But Miss Smellie had always saidthere is no such thing as Luck!) Well--so much the better. _Fighting_the Snake was the real joy, and victory would end it. So would defeatand he must not get cock-a-hoop and careless. 

Delorme filled his mouth with water and ejected it in a fine sprayover Dam's head and chest. He was very proud of this feat, but, thoughmost refreshing, Dam could have preferred that the water had come froma sprayer. 

"Seconds out of the ring, _Time!_" called the referee. 

Harberth appeared quite recovered, but he was of a curious colour andseemed tired. 

Acting on his second's advice, Dam gave his whole attention to gettingat his opponent's body again, and overdid it. As Harberth struck athim with his left, he ducked, and as he was aiming at Harberth's mark, he was suddenly knocked from day into night, from light into darkness, from life into death.... 

Years passed and Dam strove to explain that the mainspring had brokenand that he had heard it click--when suddenly a great blackdrop-curtain rolled up, while some one snapped back some slides thathad covered his ears, and had completely deafened him. 

Then he saw Harberth and heard the voice of the time-keeper saying:"_five--six--seven_". 

He scrambled to his knees, "_eight_" swayed and staggered to his feet, collapsed, rose, "_nine_" and was knocked down by Harberth. 

The time-keeper again stood up and counted, "_One--two--three_". Butthis blow actually helped him. 

He lay collecting his strength and wits, breathing deeply and takingnine seconds' rest. 

On the word _"nine"_ he sprang to his feet and as Harberth rushed in, side-stepped, and, as that youth instinctively covered hismuch-smitten "mark, " Dam drove at his chin and sent him staggering. Ashe went after him he saw that Harberth was breathing hard, trembling, and swaying on his feet. Springing in, he rained short-arm blows untilHarberth fell and then he stepped well back. 

Harberth sat shaking his head, looking piteous, and, in the middle ofthe time-keeper's counting, he arose remarking, "I've had enough"--andwalked to his chair. 

Bully Harberth was beaten--and Dam felt that the Snake was fartherfrom him than ever it had been since he could remember. 

"De Warrenne wins, " said Cokeson, and then Flaherty of the Sixthstepped into the ring and stopped the fight with much show of wrathand indignation. 

Dam was wildly cheered and chaired and thence-forth was as popular andas admired as he had been shunned and despised. 

Nor did he have another Snake seizure by day (though countlessterrible nightmares in what must be called his sleep) till some timeafter he had left school. 

When he did, it had a most momentous influence upon his career. 

She is mine! She is mine!By her soul divineBy her heart's pure guileBy her lips' sweet smileShe is mine! She is mine. 

Encapture? AyeIn dreams as fairAs angel whispers, low and rare, In thoughts as pureAs childhood's innocent allureIn hopes as brightIn deeds as whiteAs altar lilies, bathed in light. 

She is mine! She is mine!By seal as trueTo spirit viewAs holy scripture writ in dew, By bond as fairTo vision rareAs holy scripture writ in air, By writ as wise to spirit eyesAs holy scripture in God's skies vShe is mine! She is mine!

Elude me? Nay, Ere earth reclaimedIn joy unveils a Heaven regained, Ere sea unbound, Unfretting, rolls in mist--nor sound, Ere sun and star repentent crashIn scattered ash, across the barShe is _mine_ I She is _mine_!

A. L. WREN. 

CHAPTER VII. 

LOVE--AND THE SNAKE. 

Damocles de Warrenne, gentleman-cadet, on the eve of returning fromMonksmead to the Military Academy of Sandhurst, appeared to havesomething on his mind as he sat on the broad coping of the terracebalustrade and idly kicked his heels. Every time he had returned toMonksmead from Wellingborough and Sandhurst, he had found Lucille yetmore charming, delightful, and lovable. As her skirts and hairlengthened she became more and more the real companion, the pal, theadviser, without becoming any less the sportsman. 

He had always loved her quaint terms of endearment, slang, andepithets, but as she grew into a beautiful and refined and dignifiedgirl, it was still more piquant to be addressed in the highlyunladylike (or un-Smelliean) terms that she affected. 

Dam never quite knew when she began to make his heart beat quicker, and when her presence began to act upon him as sunshine and herabsence as dull cloud; but there came a time when (whether she wereriding to hounds in her neat habit, rowing with him in sweater andwhite skirt, swinging along the lanes in thick boots and tailor-madecostume, sitting at the piano after dinner in simple whitedinner-gown, or waltzing at some ball--always the belle thereof forhim) he _did_ know that Lucille was more to him than a jolly pal, asound adviser, an audience, a confidant, and ally. Perhaps the day sheput her hair up marked an epoch in the tale of his affections. Hefound that he began to hate to see other fellows dancing, skating, orplaying golf or tennis with her. He did not like to see men speakingto her at meets or taking her in to dinner. He wanted the blood of acertain neighbouring spring-Captain, a hunter of "flappers" andmolester of parlour-maids, home on furlough, who made eyes at her atthe Hunt Ball and followed her about all Cricket Week and saidsomething to her which, as Dam heard, provoked her coolly to requesthim "not to be such a priceless ass". What it was she would not tellDam, and he, magnifying it, called, like the silly raw boy he was, upon the spring-Captain, and gently requested him to "let my cousinalone, Sir, if you don't mind, or--er--I'll jolly well make you". Damknew things about the gentleman, and considered him wholly unfit tocome within a mile of Lucille. The spring-Captain was obviously muchamused and inwardly much annoyed--but he ceased his scarce-begunpursuit of the hoydenish-queenly girl, for Damocles de Warrenne had areputation for the cool prosecution of his undertakings and thecomplete fulfilment of his promises. Likewise he had a reputation forHerculean strength and uncanny skill. Yet the gay Captain had beenstrongly attracted by the beauty and grace of the unspoilt, unsophisticated, budding woman, with her sweet freshness and dignity(so quaintly enhanced by lapses into the slangy, unfettered schoolgirl... ). Not that he was a marrying man at all, of course.... Yes--Damhad it weightily on his mind that he might come down from Sandhurst atany time and find Lucille engaged to some other fellow. Girls did getengaged.... It was the natural and obvious thing for them to do. She'dget engaged to some brainy clever chap worth a dozen of his ownmediocre self.... Of course she liked him dearly as a pal and allthat, an ancient crony and chum--but how should he hope to competewith the brilliant fellers she'd meet as she went about more, and knewthem. She was going to have a season in London next year. Think of thekind of chaps she'd run across in Town in the season. Intellectualbirds, artists, poets, authors, travellers, distinguished coves, rising statesmen, under-secretaries, soldiers, swells, all sorts. Notmuch show for him against that lot!

Gad! What a rotten look-out! What a rotten world to be sure! Fancylosing Lucille!... Should he put his fortunes to the touch, risk all, and propose to her. Fellows did these things in such circumstances.... No--hardly fair to try to catch her like that before she had had atleast one season, and knew what was what and who was who.... Hardlythe clean potato--to take advantage of their long intimacy and try totrap her while she was a country mouse. 

It was not as though he were clever and could hope for a great careerand the power to offer her the position for which she was fitted. Why, he was nearly bottom of his year at Sandhurst--not a bit brilliant andbrainy. Suppose she married him in her inexperience, and then met theright sort of intellectual, clever feller too late. No, it wouldn't bethe straight thing and decent at all, to propose to her now. How wouldGrumper view such a step? What had he to offer her? What was he? Justa penniless orphan. Apart from Grumper's generosity he owned a singlefive-pound note in money. Never won a scholarship or exam-prize in hislife. Mere Public Schools boxing and fencing champion, and bestman-at-arms at Sandhurst, with a score or so of pots for running, jumping, sculling, swimming, shooting, boxing, fencing, steeple-chasing and so forth. His total patrimony encashed wouldbarely pay for his Army outfit. But for Grumper's kindness he couldn'tgo into the Army at all. And Grumper, the splendid old chap, couldn'tlast very much longer. Why--for many a long year he would not earnmore than enough to pay his mess-bills and feed his horses. Not inEngland certainly.... Was he to ask Lucille to leave her luxurioushome in a splendid mansion and live in a subaltern's four-roomed hutin the plains in India? (Even if he could scrape into the Indian armyso as to live on his pay--more or less. ) Grumper, her guardian, andexecutor of the late Bishop's will, might have very different viewsfor her. Why, she might even be his heiress--he was very fond of her, the daughter of his lifelong friend and kinsman. Fancy a pauper makingup to a very rich girl--if it came to her being that, which hedevoutly hoped it would not. It would remove her so hopelessly beyondhis reach. By the time he could make a position, and an income visibleto the naked eye, he would be grey-haired. Money was not made in thearmy. Rather was it becoming no place for a poor gentleman but theparadise of rich bounders, brainy little squits of swotters, andcommission-without-training nondescripts--thanks to the growinginsecurity of things among the army class and gentry generally. If shewere really penniless he might--as a Captain--ask her to share hispoverty--but was it likely shed be a spinster ten years hence--even ifhe were a Captain so soon? Promotion is not violently rapid in theCavalry.... And yet he simply hated the bare thought of life withoutLucille. Better to be a gardener at Monksmead, and see her every day, than be the Colonel of a Cavalry Corps and know her to be married tosomebody else.... Yes--he would come home one of these times fromSandburst or his Regiment and find her engaged to some other fellow. And what then? Well--nothing--only life would be of no furtherinterest. It was bound to happen. Everybody turned to look at her. Even women gave generous praise of her beauty, grace, and sweetness. Men raved about her, and every male creature who came near her wasobviously dpris in five minutes. The curate, plump "Holy Bill, " waswell known to be fading away, slowly and beautifully, but quitesurely, on her account. Grumper's old pal, General Harringport, hadconfided to Dam himself in the smoking-room, one very late night, thatsince he was fifty years too old for hope of success in that directionhe'd go solitary to his lonely grave (here a very wee hiccup), damnhis eyes, so he would, unwed, unloved, uneverything. Very trag(h)ic, but such was life, the General had declared, the one alleviation beingthe fact that he might die any night now, and ought to have done so adecade ago. 

Why, even the little useless snob and tuft-hunter, the Haddock, thattailor's dummy and parody of a man, cast sheep's eyes and made what hecalled "love" to her when down from Oxford (and was duly snubbed forit and for his wretched fopperies, snobberies, and folly). He'd haveto put the Haddock across his knee one of these days. 

Then there was his old school pal and Sandhurst senior, OrmondeDelorme, who frequently stayed at, and had just left, Monksmead--fairly dotty about her. She certainly liked Delorme--and nowonder, so handsome, clever, accomplished, and so fine a gentleman. Rich, too. Better Ormonde than another--but, God! what pain even tothink of it.... Why had he cleared off so suddenly, by the way, andobviously in trouble, though he would not admit it?... 

Lucille emerged from a French window and came swinging across theterrace. The young man, his face aglow, radiant, rose to meet her. Itwas a fine face--with that look on it. Ordinarily it was somewhatmarred by a slightly cynical grimness of the mouth and a hint oftrouble in the eyes--a face a little too old for its age. 

"Have a game at tennis before tea, young Piggy-wig?" asked Lucille asshe linked her arm in his. 

"No, young Piggy-wee, " replied Dam. "Gettin' old an' fat. Jointsstiffenin'. Come an' sit down and hear the words of wisdom of your oldUncle Dammiculs, the Wise Man of Monksmead. "

"Come off it, Dammy. Lazy little beast. Fat little brute, " commentedthe lady. 

As Damocles de Warrenne was six feet two inches high, and twelve stoneof iron-hard muscle, the insults fell but lightly upon him. 

"I will, though, " she continued. "I shan't have the opportunity ofhearing many more of your words of wisdom for a time, as you go backon Monday. And you'll be the panting prey of a gang of giggling girlsat the garden party and dance to-morrow.... Why on earth must we muckup your last week-day with rotten 'functions'. You don't want to danceand you don't want to garden-part in the least. "

"Nit, " interrupted Dam. 

" ... Grumper means it most kindly but ... We want you to ourselvesthe last day or two ... Anyhow.... "

"D'you want me to yourself, Piggy-wee?" asked Dam, trying to speaklightly and off-handedly. 

"Of course I do, you Ass. Shan't see you for centuries and months. Nothing to do but weep salt tears till Christmas. Go into a decline ora red nose very likely. Mind you write to me twice a week at the veryleast, " replied Lucille, and added:--

"Bet you that silly cat Amelia Harringport is in your pocket allto-morrow afternoon and evening. _All_ the Harringport crowd arecoming from Folkestone, you know. If you run the clock-golf she'll_adore_ clock-golf, and if you play tennis she'll _adore_ tennis.... Can't think what she sees in you.... "

"Don't be cattish, Lusilly, " urged the young man. "'Melier's allright. It's you she comes to see, of course. "

To which, it is regrettable to have to relate, Lucille replied"Rodents". 

Talk languished between the young people. Both seemed unwontedly illat ease and nervous. 

"D'you get long between leaving Sandhurst and joining the Corps you'regoing to distinguish, Dammy?" asked the girl after an uneasy andpregnant silence, during which they had furtively watched each other, and smiled a little uncomfortably and consciously when they hadcaught each other doing so. 

"Dunno. Sure not to. It's a rotten world, " replied Dam gloomily. "Iexpect I shall come back and find you--"

"Of course you'll come back and find me! What do you mean, Dam?" saidthe girl. She flushed curiously as she interrupted him. Before hecould reply she continued:--

"You won't be likely to have to go abroad directly you join yourRegiment, will you?"

"I shall try for the Indian Army or else for a British Regiment inIndia, " was the somewhat sullen answer. 

"Dam! What ever for?"

"More money and less expenses. "

"Dam! You mercenary little toad! You grasping, greedy hog!... Why! Ithought.... "

Lucille gazed straight and searchingly at her life-long friend for afull minute and then rose to her feet. 

"Come to tea, " she said quietly, and led the way to the big lawnwhere, beneath an ancient cedar of Lebanon, the pompous Butterton andhis solemn satellite were setting forth the tea "things". 

Aunt Yvette presided at the tea-table and talked bravely to twowoolly-witted dames from the Vicarage who had called to consult heranent the covering of a foot-stool "that had belonged to their dearGrandmamma". 

("'Time somebody shot it, " murmured Dam to Lucille as he handed hercup. )

Anon Grumper bore down upon the shady spot; queer old Grumper, verystiff, red-faced, dapper, and extremely savage. 

Having greeted the guests hospitably and kindly he confined hissubsequent conversation to two grunts and a growl. 

Lucille and Damocles could not be said to have left the cane-chairedgroup about the rustic tables and cake-stands at any given moment. Independently they evaporated, after the manner of the Cheshire Cat itwould appear, really getting farther and farther from the circle bysuch infinitely small degrees and imperceptible distances as wouldhave appealed to the moral author of "Little by Little". At length theintervening shrubbery seemed to indicate that they were scarcely inthe intimate bosom of the tea-party, if they had never really left it. 

"Come for a long walk, Liggy, " remarked Dam as they met, using anancient pet-name. 

"Right-O, my son, " was the reply. "But we must start off mildly. Ihave a lovely feeling of too much cake. Too good to waste. Wait herewhile I put on my clod-hoppers. "

The next hour was _the_ Hour of the lives of Damocles de Warrenne andLucille Gavestone--the great, glorious, and wonderful hour that comesbut once in a lifetime and is the progenitor of countless happyhours--or hours of poignant pain. The Hour that can come only tothose who are worthy of it, and which, whatever may follow, is anunspeakably precious blessing, confuting the cynic, shaming thepessimist, confounding the atheist, rewarding the pure in heart, revealing God to Man. 

Heaven help the poor souls to whom that Hour never comes, with itsmemories that nothing can wholly destroy, its brightness that nothingcan ever wholly darken. Heaven especially help the poor purblind soulthat can sneer at it, the greatest and noblest of mankind's gifts, thecountervail of all his cruel woes and curses. 

As they walked down the long sweep of the elm-avenue, the pairencountered the vicar coming to gather up his wife and sister for theevening drive, and the sight of the two fine young people gladdenedthe good man's heart. He beheld a tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped young man, with a frank handsome face, steady blue eyes, fair hair and determined jaw, a picture of the clean-bred, clean-living, out-door Englishman, athletic, healthy-minded, straight-dealing; and a slender, beautiful girl, with a strong sweetface, hazel-eyed, brown-haired, upright and active of carriage, redolent of sanity, directness, and all moral and physical health. 

"A well-matched pair, " he smiled to himself as they passed him with acheery greeting. 

For a mile or two both thought much and spoke little, the man thinkingof the brilliant, hated Unknown who would steal away his Lucille; thewoman thinking of the coming separation from the friend, without whomlife was very empty, dull, and poor. Crossing a field, they reached afence and a beautiful view of half the county. Stopping by mutualconsent, they gazed at the peaceful, familiar scene, so ennobled andetherealized by the moon's soft radiance. 

"I shall think of this walk, somehow, whenever I see the full moon, "said Dam, breaking a long silence. 

"And I, " replied Lucille. 

"I hate going away this time, somehow, more than usual, " he blurtedout after another spell of silence. "I can't help wondering whetheryou'll be--the same--when I come back at Christmas. "

"Why--how should I be different, Dammy?" asked the girl, turning hergaze upon his troubled face, which seemed to twitch and work as thoughin pain. 

"How?... Why, you might be--"

"Might be what, dear?"

"You might be--engaged. "

The girl saw that in the man's eyes to which his tongue could not, orwould not, give utterance. As he spoke the word, with a catch in hisbreath, she suddenly flung her arms round his neck, pressed her lipsto his white face, and, with a little sob, whispered:--

"Not unless to you, Dam, darling--there is no other man in the worldbut you, " and their lips met in their first lover's kiss.... Oh, thewonderful, glorious world!... The grand, beautiful old world! Place ofdelight, joy, wonder, beauty, gratitude. How the kind little starssang to them and the benign old moon looked down and said: "Neverdespair, never despond, never fear, God has given you Love. Whatmatters else?" How the man swore to himself that he would be worthy ofher, strive for her, live for her; if need be--die for her. How thewoman vowed to herself that she would be worthy of her splendid, noblelover, help him, cheer him, watch over him. Oh, if he might only needher some day and depend on her for something in spite of his strengthand manhood. How she yearned to do something for him, to give, togive, to give. Their hour lasted for countless ages, and passed in aflash. The world intruded, spoiling itself as always. 

"Home to dinner, darling, " said the girl at last. "Hardly time todress if we hurry. Grumper will simply rampage and roar. He gets worseevery day. " She disengaged herself from the boy's arms and herterribly beautiful, painfully exquisite, trance. 

"Give me one more kiss, tell me once more that you love me and onlyme, for ever, and let us go.... God bless this place. I thank God. Ilove God--now ... " she said. 

Dam could not speak at all. 

They walked away, hand in hand, incredulous, tremulous, bewildered bythe beauty and wonder and glory of Life. 

Alas!

As they passed the Lodge and entered the dark avenue, Dam found histongue. 

"Must tell Grumper, " he said. Nothing mattered since Lucille loved himlike that. She'd be happier in the subaltern's hut in the plains ofIndia than in a palace. If Grumper didn't like it, he must lump it. Her happiness was more important than Grumper's pleasure. 

"Yes, " acquiesced Lucille, "but tell him on Monday morning when yougo. Let's have this all to ourselves, darling, just for a few hours. Ibelieve he'll be jolly glad. Dear old bear, isn't he--really. "

In the middle of the avenue Lucille stopped. 

"Dammy, my son, " quoth she, "tell me the absolute, bare, bald truth. Much depends upon it and it'll spoil everything if you aren'tperfectly, painfully honest. "

"Right-O, " responded Dam. "Go it. "

"Am I the very very loveliest woman that ever lived?"

"No, " replied Dam, "but I wouldn't have a line of your face changed. "

"Am I the cleverest woman in the world?"

"No. But you're quite clever enough for me. I wouldn't have you anycleverer. God forbid. "

"Am I absolutely perfect and without flaw--in character. "

"No. But I love your faults. "

"Do you wish to enshrine me in a golden jewel-studded temple andworship me night and day?"

"No. I want to put you in a house and live with you. "

"Hurrah, " cried the surprising young woman. "That's _love_, Dam. It'snot rotten idealizing and sentimentalizing that dies away as soon asfacts are seen as such. You're a man, Dam, and I'm going to be awoman. I loathe that bleating, glorified nonsense that the ReverendBill and Captain Luniac and poor old Ormonde and people talk whenthey're 'in love'. _Love!_ It's just sentimental idealizing and theworship of what does not exist and therefore cannot last. You love_me_, don't you, Dammy, not an impossible figment of a heatedimagination? This will last, dear.... If you'd idealized me intosomething unearthly and impossible you'd have tired of me in sixmonths or less. You'd have hated me when you saw the reality, andfound yourself tied to it for life. "

"Make a speech, Daughter, " replied Damocles. "Get on a stump and makea blooming speech. "

Both were a little unstrung. 

"I must wire this news to Delorme, " said he suddenly. "He'll bedelighted. " Lucillemade no reply. 

As they neared the end of the drive and came within sight of thehouse, the girl whispered:--

"My own pal, Dammy, for always. And you thought I could be engaged toanyone but _you_. There _is_ no one but you in the world, dear. Itwould be quite empty if you left it. Don't worry about ways and meansand things, Dam, I shall enjoy waiting for _you_--twenty years. "

He thought of that, later. 

On the morrow of that incredible day, Damocles de Warrenne sprang fromhis bed at sunrise and sought the dew-washed garden below the bigsouth terrace. 

The world contained no happier man. Sunrise in a glorious Englishsummer and a grand old English garden, on the day after the Day ofDays. He trod on air as he lived over again every second of thatwonderful over-night scene, and scarcely realized the impossibletruth. 

Lucille loved him, as a lover! Lucille the _alter ego_, theunderstanding, splendid friend; companion in play and work, in idlegaiety and serious consideration; the _bon camarade_, the real chumand pal. 

Life was a Song, the world a Paradise, the future a long-drawn Glory. 

He would like to go and hold the Sword in his hand for a minute, and--something seemed to stir beneath his foot, and a shudder ranthrough his powerful frame. 

The brightness of the morning was dimmed, and then Lucille cametowards him blushing, radiant, changed, and all was well with theworld, and God in high heaven. 

 * * * * *

After breakfast they again walked in the garden, the truly enchantedgarden, and talked soberly with but few endearments though withover-full hearts, and with constant pauses to eye the face of theother with wondering rapture. They came of a class and a race notgiven to excessive demonstrativeness, but each knew that the otherloved--for life. 

In the afternoon, guests began to arrive soon after lunch, dutiesusurped the place of pleasures, and the lovers met as mere friends inthe crowd. There was meaning in the passing glances, however, and anoccasional hand-touch in the giving of tennis-ball, or tea-cup. 

"Half the County" was present, and while the younger fry playedtennis, croquet, clock-golf, and bowls, indulged in "mixed cricket, "or attempted victory at archery or miniature-rifle shooting, thesedate elders strolled o'er velvet lawns beneath immemorial elms, satin groups, or took tea by carpet-spread marquees. 

Miss Amelia Harringport, seeing Dam with a croquet-mallet in his hand, observed that she _adored_ croquet. Dam stated in reply that HaddonBerners was a fearful dog at it, considered there should be a croquetBlue in fact, and would doubtless be charmed to make up a set with herand the curate, the Reverend William Williamson Williams (Holy Bill), and Another. Dam himself was cut off from the bliss of being theOther--did not know the game at all. 

Miss Amelia quickly tired of her croquet with the Haddock, Holy Billand the Vicar's Wife's Sister, who looked straitly after Holy Bill onthis and all other occasions. Seeing Dam shepherding a flock of eldersto the beautifully-mown putting-tracks radiating from the centralcircle of "holes" for the putting competition, she informed him thatshe _adored_ putting, so much so that she wanted lessons from him, thelocal amateur golf-champion. 

"I just want a little _personal tuition_ from the Champion and I shallbe quite a classy putter, " she gurgled. 

"I will personally tuit, " replied Dam, "and when you are tuited wewill proceed to win the prize. "

Carefully posing the maiden aspirant for putting excellence at the endof the yard-wide velvety strip leading to the green and "hole, " Damgave his best advice, bade her smite with restraint, and thenproceeded to the "hole" to retrieve the ball for his own turn. Othercouples did "preliminary canters" somewhat similarly on the remainingspokes of the great wheel of the putting "clock". 

The canny and practised Amelia, who had designs upon the handsomesilver prize as well as upon the handsome Damocles, smote straight andtrue with admirable judgment, and the ball sped steadily down thetrack direct for the "hole, " a somewhat large and deep one. 

"By Jove! Magnificent!" cried Dam, with quick and generousappreciation of the really splendid putt. "You'll hole out in one thistime, anyhow. " As the slowing ball approached the "hole" he insertedhis hand therein, laughing gaily, to anticipate the ball which withits last grain of momentum would surely reach it and topple in. 

Then the thing happened!

As he put his hand to the grass-encircled goal of the maiden's hopesand ball, its gloomy depths appeared to move, swirl round, rise up, asa small green snake uncoiled in haste and darted beneath Dam'sapproaching upturned hand, and swiftly undulated across the lawn. 

With a shriek that momentarily paralysed the gay throng, turned alleyes in his direction, and brought the more cool and helpful runningto the spot, Dam fell writhing, struggling, and screaming to theground. 

"The SNAKE! The SNAKE!" he howled, while tears gushed from his eyesand he strove to dig his way into the ground for safety. 

"There it goes!" squealed the fair Amelia pointing tragically. Ladiesduly squeaked, bunched their skirts tightly, jumped on chairs orsought protection by the side of stalwart admirers. 

Men cried "Where?" and gathered for battle. One sporting characteremitted an appalling "View Halloo" and there were a few "Yoicks" and"Gone Aways" to support his little solecism. Lucille, rushing to Dam, encountered the fleeing reptile and with a neat stroke of her putterended its career. 

"It's all right, old chap, " sneered Haddon Berners, as the mad, convulsed, and foaming Dam screamed: "_It's under my foot. It'smoving, moving, moving out_, " and doubled up into a knot. 

"Oh no, it isn't, " he continued. "Lucille has killed it. Nothing to beterrified about.... Oh, chuck it, man! Get up and blow your nose.... "He was sent sprawling on his back as Lucille dropped by Dam's side andstrove to raise his face from the grass. 

"Come off it, Dam! You're very funny, we know, " adjured the sportingcharacter, rather ashamed and discomfortable at seeing a brother manbehaving so. There are limits to acting the goat--especially withwimmin about. Why couldn't Dam drop it?... 

Lucille was shocked and horrified to the innermost fibres of herbeing. Her dignified, splendid Dam rolling on the ground, shrieking, sobbing, writhing.... Ill or well, joke or seizure, it was horrible, unseemly.... Why couldn't the gaping fools be obliterated?... 

"Dam, dear, " she whispered in his ear, as she knelt over theshuddering, gasping, sobbing man. "What is it, Dam? Are you ill? Dam, it's Lucille.... The snake is quite dead, dear. I killed it. Are youjoking? Dam! _Dam_!" ... 

The stricken wretch screamed like a terrified child. 

"Oh, won't somebody fetch Dr. Jones if he's not here yet, " she wailed, turning to the mystified crowd of guests. "Get some water quickly, somebody, salts, brandy, anything! Oh, _do_ go away, " and she deftlyunfastened the collar of the spasm-wracked sufferer. "Haddon, " shecried, looking up and seeing the grinning Haddock, "go straight forDr. Jones. Cycle if you're afraid of spoiling your clothes by riding. Quick!"

"Oh, he'll be all right in a minute, " drawled the Haddock, who did notrelish a stiff ride along dusty roads in his choicest confection. "He's playing the fool, I believe--or a bit scared at the ferociousserpent. "

Lucille gave the youth a look that he never forgot, and turned to thesporting person. 

"You know the stables, Mr. Fellerton, " she said. "Would you tellPattern or somebody to send a man for Dr. Jones? Tell him to beat therecord. "

The sporting one sprinted toward the shrubbery which lay between thegrounds and the kitchen-gardens, beyond which were the stables. 

Most people, with the better sort of mind, withdrew and made effortsto recommence the interrupted games or to group themselves once moreabout the lawns and marquees. 

Others remained to make fatuous suggestions, to wonder, or merely tolook on with feelings approaching awe and fascination. There wassomething uncanny here--a soldier and athlete weeping and screamingand going into fits at the sight of a harmless grass-snake, probably amere blind worm! Was he a hysterical, neurotic coward, after all--awretched decadent?

Poor Lucille suffered doubly--every pang, spasm, and contortion thatshook and wrung the body of her beloved, racked her own frame, and hermind was tortured by fear, doubts, and agony. "Oh, please go away, dear people, " she moaned. "It is a touch of sun. He is a littlesubject to slight fits--very rarely and at long intervals, you know. He may never have another. " A few of the remaining onlookers backedaway a little shamefacedly. Others offered condolences while inwardlyscoffing at the "sun" explanation. Did not de Warrenne bowl, bat, orfield, bare-headed, throughout the summer's day without thinking ofthe sun? Who had heard of the "fits" before? Why had they nottranspired during the last dozen years or so? "Help me carry himindoors, somebody, " said the miserable, horrified Lucille. That wouldget rid of the silly staring "helpers" anyhow--even if it broughtmatters to the notice of Grumper, who frankly despised and detestedany kind of sick person or invalid. 

What would he say and do? What had happened to the glowing, gloriousworld that five minutes ago was fairy-land and paradise? Was her Dam awretched coward, afraid of things, screaming like a girl at the sightof a common snake, actually terrified into a fit? Better be apick-pocket than a.... Into the thinning, whispering circle cameGeneral Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, apoplectically angry. Some sillyfool, he understood, had fainted or something--probably a pulingtight-laced fool of a woman who starved herself to keep slim. Peoplewho wanted to faint should stay and do it at home--not come creatingdisturbances and interruptions at Monksmead garden-parties.... 

And then he saw a couple of young men and Lucille striving to raisethe recumbent body of a man. The General snorted as snorts thewart-hog in love and war, or the graceful hippopotamus in the river. 

"What the Devil's all this?" he growled. "Some poor fella fainted withthe exertions of putting?" A most bitter old gentleman. 

Lucille turned to him and his fierce gaze fell upon the pale, contorted, and tear-stained face of Dam. 

The General flushed an even deeper purple, and the stick he heldperpendicularly slowly rose to horizontal, though he did not raise hishand. 

He made a loud but wholly inarticulate sound. 

Haddon Berners, enjoying himself hugely, volunteered the information. 

"He saw a little grass-snake and yelled out. Then he wept and fainted. Coming round now. Got the funks, poor chap. "

Lucille's hands closed (the thumbs correctly on the knuckles of thesecond fingers), and, for a moment, it was in her heart to smite theHaddock on the lying mouth with the straight-from-the-shoulder drivelearned in days of yore from Dam, and practised on the punching-ballwith great assiduity. Apparently the Haddock realized the fact for heskipped backward with agility. 

"He is ill, Grumper dear, " she said instead. "He has had a kind offit. Perhaps he had sunstroke in India, and it has just affected himnow in the sun.... "

Grumper achieved the snort of his life. 

It may have penetrated Dam's comatose brain, indeed, for at thatmoment, with a moan and a shudder, he struggled to a sitting posture. 

"The Snake, " he groaned, and collapsed again. 

"What the Devil!" roared the General. "Get up, you miserable, whiningcur! Get indoors, you bottle-fed squalling workhouse brat! Get out ofit, you decayed gentlewoman!" ... The General bade fair to have a fitof his own. 

Lucille flung herself at him. 

"Can't you see he's very ill, Grumper? Have you no heart at all? Don'tbe so cruel ... And ... Stupid. "

The General gasped.... Insults!... From a chit of a girl!... "Ill!" heroared. "What the Devil does he want to be ill for now, here, to-day?I never ... "

Dam struggled to his feet with heroic efforts at self-mastery, andstood swaying, twitching, trembling in every limb, and obviously in anagony of terror. 

"The Snake!" he said again. 

"Ha!" barked General Stukeley. "Been fighting forty boa-constrictors, what? Just had a fearful struggle with five thousand fearful pythons, what? There'll be another Victoria Cross in your family soon, ifyou're not careful. "

"You are an unjust and cruel old man, " stormed Lucille, stamping herfoot at the hitherto dread Grumper. "He is ill, I tell you! You'll beill yourself someday. He had a fit. He'll be all right in a minute. Let him go in and lie down. It wasn't the snake at all. There wasn'tany snake--where he was. He is just ill. He has been working too hard. Let him go in and lie down. "

"Let him go to the Devil, " growled the infuriated General, and turnedto such few of the guests as had not displayed sufficient good senseand good taste to go elsewhere and resume their interrupted games, tea, or scandal, to remark:--

"I really apologize most sincerely and earnestly for this ridiculousscene. The boy should be in petticoats, apparently. I hope he won'tencounter a mouse or a beetle to-night. Let's all--er--come and have adrink. "

Lucille led her shaking and incoherent lover indoors and establishedhim on a sofa, had a fire lit for him as he appeared to be deathlycold, and sat holding his clammy hand until the arrival of Dr. Jones. 

As well as his chattering teeth and white frozen lips would allow, hebegged for forgiveness, for understanding. "He wasn't really wholly acoward in essentials. " ... 

The girl kissed the contorted face and white lips passionately. Dr. Jones prescribed bed and "complete mental and bodily rest". He saidhe would "send something, " and in a cloud of wise words disguised thefact that he did not in the least know what to do. It was not in hisexperience that a healthy young Hercules, sound as a bell, withoutspot or blemish, should behave like an anaemic, neurotic girl.... 

Dam passed the night in the unnameable, ghastly hell of agony that heknew so well and that he wondered to survive. 

In the morning he received a note from Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley. Itwas brief and clear:--"Sandhurst is scarcely the place for a squealingcoward, still less the Army. Nor is there room for one at Monksmead. Ishall not have the pleasure of seeing you before you catch the 11. 15train; I might say things better left unsaid. I thank God you do notbear our name though you have some of our blood. This will be the onegrain of comfort when I think that the whole County is gibing andjeering. No--your name is no more Seymour Stukeley than is yournature. If you will favour my Solicitors with your address, they willfurnish you with an account of your patrimony and such balance thereofas may remain--if any. But I believe you came to England worth aboutfifty pounds--which you have probably spent as pocket-money. I beg ofyou to communicate with me or my household in no way whatsoever. 

"G. S. S. "

Hastily dressing, Dam fled from the house on foot, empty handed andwith no money but a five-pound note legitimately his own privateproperty. On his dressing-table he left the cheque given to him by his"grandfather" for ensuing Sandhurst expenses. Hiding in the stationwaiting-room, he awaited the next train to London--with thoughts ofrecruiting-sergeants and the Guards. From force of habit he travelledfirst-class, materially lessening his five pounds. In the carriage, which he had to himself, he sat stunned. He was rather angry thandismayed and appalled. He was like the soldier, cut down by asabre-slash or struck by a bullet, who, for a second, stares dully atthe red gash or blue hole--waiting for the blood to flow and the painto commence. 

He was numbed, emotionally dead, waiting the terrible awakening to therealization that he had _lost Lucille_. What mattered the loss ofhome, career, friends, honour--mere anti-climax to glance at it. 

Yesterday!... To-day!

What was Lucille thinking? What would she do and say? Would she growto hate the coward who had dared to make love to her, dared to win herlove!

Would she continue to love him in spite of all?

_I shall enjoy waiting twenty years for you_, she had said yesterday, and _The world would be quite empty if you left it_. What would it bewhile he remained in it a publicly disgraced coward? A cowardridiculed by the effeminate, degenerate Haddock, who had no soulabove club-ribbons, and no body above a Piccadilly crawl!

Could she love him in spite of all? She was great-hearted enough foranything. Perhaps for anything but that. To her, cowardice must be thelast lowest depths of degradation. Anyhow he had done the straightthing by Grumper, in leaving the house without any attempt to let herknow, to say farewell, to ask her to believe in him for a while. Ifthere had been any question as to the propriety of his trying tobecome engaged to her when he was the penniless gentleman-cadet, wasthere any question about it when he was the disgraced out-cast, thepublicly exposed coward?

Arrived at the London terminus he sought a recruiting-sergeant and, ofcourse, could not find one. 

However, Canterbury and Cavalry were indissolubly connected in hismind, and it had occurred to him that, in the Guards, he would runmore risk of coming face to face with people whom he knew than in anyother corps. He would go for the regiment he had known and loved inIndia (as he had been informed) and about which he had heard much allhis life. It was due for foreign service in a year or two, and, so faras he knew, none of its officers had ever heard of him. OrmondeDelorme was mad about it, but could not afford its expensive mess. Damhad himself thought how jolly it would be if Grumper "came down"sufficiently handsomely for him to be able to join it on leavingSandhurst. He'd join it _now_!

He hailed a hansom and proceeded to Charing Cross, whence he bookedfor the noble and ancient city of Canterbury. 

Realizing that only one or two sovereigns would remain to himotherwise, he travelled in a third-class carriage for the first timein his hitherto luxurious life. Its bare discomfort and unpleasantoccupants (one was a very malodorous person indeed, and one a smokerof what smelt like old hats and chair-stuffing in a rank clay pipe)brought home to him more clearly than anything had done, the fact thathe was a homeless, destitute person about to sell his carcase for ashilling, and seek the last refuge of the out-of-work, thewanted-by-the-police, the disgraced, and the runaway. 

That carriage and its occupants showed him, in a blinding flash, thathis whole position, condition, outlook, future, and life were utterlyand completely changed. 

He was Going Under. Had anybody else ever done it so quickly?... 

He went Under, and his entrance to the Underworld was through thegreat main-gates of the depot of the Queen's Own (2nd) Regiment ofHeavy Cavalry, familiarly known as the Queen's Greys. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

TROOPERS OF THE QUEEN. 

GLIMPSES OF CERTAIN "POOR DEVILS" AND THE HELL THEY INHABITED. 

The Queen's Own (2nd) Regiment of Heavy Cavalry (The Queen's Greys)were under orders for India and the influence of great joy. That someof its members were also under the influence of potent waters isperhaps a platitudinous corollary. 

... "And phwat the Divvle's begone of me ould pal Patsy Flannigan, atall, at all?" inquired Trooper Phelim O'Shaughnessy, entering thebarrack-room of E Troop of the Queen's Greys, lying at ShorncliffeCamp. "Divvle a shmell of the baste can I see, and me back fromfurlough-leaf for minnuts. Has the schamer done the two-shtep widoutanny flure, as Oi've always foretould? Is ut atin' his vegetables bythe roots he now is in the bone-orchard, and me owing the poor bhoyfoive shillin'? Where is he?"

"In 'orsepittle, " laconically replied Trooper Henry Hawker, late ofWhitechapel, without looking up from the jack-boot he was polishing. 

"Phwat wid?" anxiously inquired the bereaved Phelim. 

"Wot wiv'? Wiv' callin' 'Threes abaht' after one o' the YoungJocks, "[16] was the literal reply. 

"Begob that same must be a good hand wid his fisties--or was it ashillaleigh?" mused the Irishman. 

"'Eld the Helliot belt in Hinjer last year, they say, " continued theCockney. "_Good?_ Not'arf. I wouldn't go an' hinsult the bloke for theprice of a pot. No. 'Erbert 'Awker would not. (Chuck us yorebutton-stick, young 'Enery Bone. ) _Good?_ 'E's a 'Oly Terror--and Idon't know as there's a man in the Queen's Greys as could put 'im tosleep--not unless it's Matthewson, " and here Trooper Herbert Hawkerjerked his head in the direction of Trooper Damocles de Warrenne(_alias_ D. Matthewson) who, seated on his truckle-bed, was engaged inbreathing hard, and rubbing harder, upon a brass helmet from which hehad unscrewed a black horse-hair plume. 

Dam, arrayed in hob-nailed boots, turned-up overalls "authorized forgrooming, " and a "grey-back" shirt, looked indefinably a gentleman. 

Trooper Herbert Hawker, in unlaced gymnasium shoes, "leathers, " and abrown sweater (warranted not to show the dirt), looked quite definablywhat he was, a Commercial Road ruffian; and his foreheadless face, greasy cow-lick "quiff" (or fringe), and truculent expression, inspired more disgust than confidence in the beholder. 

His reference to Dam as the only likely champion of the Heavy Cavalryagainst the Hussar was a tribute to the tremendous thrashing he hadreceived from "Trooper D. Matthewson" when the same had becomenecessary after a long course of unresented petty annoyance. Hawkerwas that very rare creature, a boaster, who made good, a bully ofgreat courage and determination, and a loud talker, who was a veryactive doer; and the battle had been a terrible one. 

The weary old joke of having a heavy valise pulled down on to one'supturned face from the shelf above, by means of a string, as onesleeps, Dam had taken in good part. Being sent to the Rough-RidingSergeant-Major for the "Key of the Half Passage" by this seniorrecruit, he did not mind in the least (though he could have kickedhimself for his gullibility when he learned that the "Half Passage" isnot a place, but a Riding-School manoeuvre, and escaped from thebitter tongue of the incensed autocrat--called untimely from his tea!How the man had _bristled_. Hair, eyebrows, moustache, buttonseven--the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major had been rough indeed, and haddone his riding rough-shod over the wretched lad). 

Being instructed to "go and get measured for his hoof-picker" Dam hadnot resented, though he had considered it something of an insult tohis intelligence that Hawker should expect to "have" him so easily asthat. He had taken in good part the arrangement of his bed in such away that it collapsed and brought a pannikin of water down with it, and on to it, in the middle of a cold night. He had received with goodhumour, and then with silent contempt, the names of "Gussie the BankClurk, " references to "broken-dahn torfs" and "tailor's bleedn'dummies, " queries as to the amount of "time" he had got for theoffence that made him a "Queen's Hard Bargain, " and various the otherpleasantries whereby Herbert showed his distaste for people whoseaccent differed from his own, and whose tastes were unaccountable. 

Dam had borne these things because he was certain he could thrash thesilly animal when the time came, and because he had a wholesome dreadof the all-too-inevitable military "crimes" (one of which fightingis--as subversive of good order and military discipline). 

It had come, however, and for Dam this exotic of the Ratcliffe Highwayhad thereafter developed a vast admiration and an embarrassingaffection. It was a most difficult matter to avoid his companionshipwhen "walking-out" and also to avoid hurting his feelings. 

It was a humiliating and chastening experience to the man, who hadsupported himself by boxing in booths at fairs and show-grounds, tofind this "bloomin' dook of a 'Percy, '" this "lah-de-dar 'Reggie'" wholooked askance at good bread-and-dripping, this finnicky "Clarence"without a "bloody" to his conversation, this "blasted, up-the-pole[17]'Cecil'"--a man with a quicker guard, a harder punch, a smarterring-craft, a better wind, and a tougher appetite for "gruel"than himself. 

The occasion was furnished by a sad little experience. 

Poor drunken Trooper Bear (once the Honourable MacMahon FitzUrse), kindliest, weakest, gentlest of gentlemen, had lurched one bittersoaking night (or early morning) into the barrack-room, singing in abeautiful tenor:--

"Menez-moi" dit la belle, "A la rive fidčleOů l'on aime toujours. "... --"Cette rive ma chčreOn ne la connait gučreAu pays des amours. ".... 

Trooper Herbert Hawker had no appreciation for Theophile Gautier--orperhaps none for being awakened from his warm slumbers. 

"'Ere! stow that blarsted catawaulin', " he roared, with a choiceselection from the Whitechapel tongue, in which he requested theadjectived noun to be adverbially "quick about it, too". 

With a beatific smile upon his weak handsome face, Trooper Bearstaggered toward the speaker, blew him a kiss, and, in a vainendeavour to seat himself upon the cot, collapsed upon the ground. 

"You're a.... " (adverbially adjectived noun) shouted Hawker. "Youain't a man, you're a.... " "[Greek: skias hovar havthropos]" ... "Manis the dream of a shadow, " suggested Bear dreamily with a hiccup.... 

"D'yer know where you _are_, you ... " roared Hawker. 

"Dear Heart, I am in hell, " replied the recumbent one, "but by theMercy of God I'm splendidly drunk. Yes, hell. '_Lasciate ognisperanza, _' sweet Amaryllis. I am Morag of the Misty Way. _Mos'_misty. Milky Way. Yesh. Milk Punchy Way. " ... 

"I'll give you all the _punch_ you'll want, in abaht two ticks if youdon't chuck it--you blarsted edjucated flea, " warned Hawker, halfrising. 

Dam got up and pulled on his cloak preparatory to helping theo'er-taken one to bed, as a well-aimed ammunition boot took the latternearly on the ear. 

Struggling to his feet with the announcement that he was "the King'sfair daughter, weighed in the balance and found--devilish heavy andvery drunk, " the unhappy youth lurched and fell upon the outragedHawker--who struck him a cruel blow in the face. 

At the sound of the blow and heavy fall, Dam turned, saw theblood--and went Stukeley-mad. Springing like a tiger upon Hawker hedragged him from his cot and knocked him across it. In less than aminute he had twice sent him to the boards, and it took half-a-dozenmen on either side to separate the combatants and get them to postponethe finish till the morning. That night Dam dreamed his dream and, onthe morrow, behind the Riding-School, and in fifteen rounds, became, by common consent, champion bruiser of the Queen's Greys--by noambition of his own. 

And so--as has been said--Trooper Henry Hawker ungrudgingly referredTrooper Phelim O'Shaughnessy to him in the matter of reducing thepride of the Young Jock who had dared to "desthroy" a dragoon. 

Trooper Phelim O'Shaughnessy--in perfect-fitting glove-tight scarletstable-jacket (that never went near a stable, being in fact the smartshell-jacket, shaped like an Eton coat, sacred to "walking-out"purposes), dark blue overalls with broad white stripe, strapped overhalf-wellington boots adorned with glittering swan-neck spurs, apill-box cap with white band and button, perched jauntily on threehairs--also looked what he was, the ideal heavy-cavalry man, theswaggering, swashbuckling trooper, _beau sabreur_, good all round andall through.... 

The room in which these worthies and various others (varying also indress, from shirt and shorts to full review-order for Guard) had theirbeing, expressed the top note and last cry--or the lowest note anddeepest groan--of bleak, stark utilitarianism. Nowhere was there hintor sign of grace and ornament. Bare deal-plank floor, barewhite-washed walls, plank and iron truckle beds, rough plank and irontrestle tables, rough plank and iron benches, rough plank and ironboxes clamped to bedsteads, all bore the same uniform impression ofuseful ugliness, ugly utility. The apologist in search of a solitaryencomium might have called it clean--save around the hideous closedstove where muddy boots, coal-dust, pipe-dottels, and the bitter-endof five-a-penny "gaspers"[18] rebuked his rashness. 

A less inviting, less inspiring, less home-like room for humanhabitation could scarce be found outside a jail. Perhaps this was theless inappropriate in that a jail it was, to a small party of itsoccupants--born and bred to better things. 

The eye was grateful even for the note of cheer supplied by the redcylindrical valise on the shelf above each cot, and by the occasionalscarlet tunic and stable-jacket. But for these it had been, to theeducated eye, an even more grim, grey, depressing, beauty-and-joy-forsaken place than it was.... 

Dam (_alias_ Trooper D. Matthewson) placed the gleaming helmet uponhis callous straw-stuffed pillow, carefully rubbed the place where hishand had last touched it, and then took from a peg his scarlet tunicwith its white collar, shoulder-straps and facings. Having satisfiedhimself that to burnish further its glittering buttons would be togild refined gold, he commenced a vigorous brushing--for it was nowhis high ambition to "get the stick"--in other words to be dismissedfrom guard-duty as reward for being the best-turned-out man onparade.... As he reached up to his shelf for his gauntlets andpipe-clay box, Trooper Phelim O'Shaughnessy swaggered over with muchjingle of spur and playfully smote him, netherly, with his cuttingwhip. 

"What-ho, me bhoy, " he roared, "and how's me natty Matty--the natestfoightin' man in E Troop, which is sayin' in all the Dhraghoons, whichis sayin' in all the Arrmy! How's Matty?"

"Extant, " replied Dam. "How's Shocky, the biggest liar in the same?"

As he extended his hand it was noticeable that it was much smallerthan the hand of the smaller man to whom it was offered. "Ye'll haveto plug and desthroy the schamin' divvle that strook poor PatsyFlannigan, Matty, " said the Irishman. "Ye must bate the sowl out ofthe baste before we go to furrin' parts. Loife is uncertain an' yemoight never come back to do ut, which the Holy Saints forbid--an' theHussars troiumphin' upon our prosprit coorpses. For the hanner an'glory av all Dhraghoons, of the Ould Seconds, and of me porebed-ridden frind, Patsy Flannigan, ye must go an' plug the wickedscutt, Matty darlint. "

"It was Flannigan's fault, " replied Dam, daubing pipe-clay on the hugecuff of a gauntlet which he had drawn on to a weird-looking woodenhand, sacred to the purposes of glove-drying. "He got beastly drunkand insulted a better man than himself by insulting his Corps--ortrying to. He called a silly lie after a total stranger and got whathe deserved. He shouldn't seek sorrow if he doesn't want to find it, and he shouldn't drink liquor he can't carry. "

"And the Young Jock beat Patsy when drunk, did he?" murmuredO'Shaughnessy, in tones of awed wonder. "I riverince the man, forthere's few can beat him sober. Knocked Patsy into hospital an' himfoightin' dhrunk! Faith, he must be another Oirish gintleman himself, indade. "

"He's a Scotchman and was middle-weight champion of India last year, "rejoined Dam, and moistened his block of pipe-clay again in the mostobvious, if least genteel, way. 

"Annyhow he's a mere Hussar and must be rimonsthrated wid for darin'to assault and batther a Dhraghoon--an' him dhrunk, poor bhoy. Say thewurrud, Matty. We'll lay for the spalpeen, the whole of E Troop, atthe _Ring o' Bells_, an' whin he shwaggers in like he was a Dhraghoonan' a sodger, ye'll up an' say _'Threes about'_ an' act accordin'subsequint, an' learn the baste not to desthroy an' insult hisbetthers of the Ould Second. Thread on the tail of his coat, Matty.... "

"If I had anything to do with it at all I'd tread on Flannigan's coat, and you can tell him so, for disgracing the Corps.... Take off yourjacket and help with my boots, Shocky. I'm for Guard. "

"Oi'd clane the boots of no man that ud demane himself to ax it, " wasthe haughty reply of the disappointed warrior. "Not for less than aquart at laste, " he amended. 

"A quart it is, " answered Dam, and O'Shaughnessy speedily divestedhimself of his stable-jacket, incidentally revealing the fact that hehad pawned his shirt. 

"You have got your teeth ready, then?" observed Dam, noting theunderlying bareness--and thereby alluded to O'Shaughnessy's habit ofpawning his false teeth after medical inspection and redeeming them intime for the next, at the cost of his underclothing--itself redeemedin turn by means of the teeth. Having been compelled to providehimself with a "plate" he invariably removed the detested contrivanceand placed it beside him when sitting down to meals (on those rareoccasions when he and not his "uncle" was the arbiter of itsdestinies).... 

A young and important Lance-Corporal, a shocking tyrant and bully, strode into the room, his sword clanking. O'Shaughnessy arose andrespectfully drew him aside, offering him a "gasper". They were joinedby a lean hawk-faced individual answering to the name of Fish, whosaid he had been in the American navy until buried alive at sea forsmiling within sight of the quarter-deck. 

"Yep, " he was heard to say to some statement of O'Shaughnessy's. "We'll hatch a five-bunch frame-up to put the eternal kibosh on thetuberous spotty--souled skunklet. Some. We'll make him wise to whethera tippy, chew-the-mop, bandy-legged, moke-monkey can comesquare-pushing, and with his legs out, down _this_ side-walk, beforewe ante out. Some. "

"Ah, Yus, " agreed the Lance-Corporal. "Damned if I wouldn't chawnce mearm[19] and go fer 'im meself before we leave--on'y I'm expectin'furver permotion afore long. But fer that I'd take it up meself"--andhe glanced at Dam. 

"Ketch the little swine at it, " remarked Trooper Herbert Hawker, asloudly as he dared, to his "towny, " Trooper Henry Bone. "'Chawnst 'isarm!' It's 'is bloomin' life 'e'd chawnce if that Young Jock gotsettin' abaht 'im. Not 'arf!" and the exotic of the Ratcliffe Highwayadded most luridly expressed improprieties anent the origins of theLance-Corporal, his erstwhile enemy and, now, superior officer, inaddition. 

"That's enough, " said Dam shortly. 

"Yep. Quit those low-browed sounds, guttermut, or I'll get mad allover, " agreed Fish, whose marvellous vocabulary included no foulwords. There was no need for them. 

"Hi halso was abaht ter request you not to talk beastial, Mr. 'Erbert'Awker, " chimed in Trooper "Henery" Bone, anxious to be on the side ofthe saints. "Oo'd taike you to be the Missin' Hair of a noble 'ousewhen you do such--'Missin' Hair!' _Missin' Link_ more like, " he addedwith spurious indignation. 

The allusion was to the oft-expressed belief of Trooper HerbertHawker, a belief that became a certainty and subject for bloodshed andbattle after the third quart or so, that there was a mystery about hisbirth. 

There was, according to his reputed papa.... 

The plotters plotted, and Dam completed the burnishing of his arms, spurs, buckles, and other glittering metal impedimenta (the quantityof which earned the Corps its barrack-room soubriquet of "the PolishIts"), finished the flicking of spots of pipe-clay from his uniform, and dressed for Guard. 

Being ready some time before he had to parade, he sat musing on histruckle-bed. 

What a life! What associates (outside the tiny band ofgentlemen-rankers). What cruel awful _publicity_ of existence--thatwas the worst of all. Oh, for a private room and a private coat, and ameal in solitude! Some place of one's own, where one could expressone's own individuality in the choice and arrangement of property, andimpress it upon one's environment. 

One could not even think in private here. 

And he was called a _private_ soldier! A grim joke indeed, when thecrying need of one's soul was a little privacy. 

A _private_ soldier!

Well--and what of the theory of Compensations, that all men get thesame sum-total of good and bad, that position is really immaterial tohappiness? What of the theory that more honour means also moreresponsibility and worry, that more pay also means more expenses anda more difficult position, that more seniority also means less youthand joy--that Fate only robs Peter to pay Paul, and, when bestowing ablessing with one hand, invariably bestows a curse with the other?

Too thin. 

Excellent philosophy for the butterfly upon the road, preachingcontentment to the toad, who, beneath the harrow, knows exactly whereeach tooth-point goes. Let the butterfly come and try it. 

_What_ a life!

Not so bad at first, perhaps, for a stout-hearted, hefty sportsman, during recruit days when everything is novel, there is something tolearn, time is fully occupied, and one is too busy to think, too busyevading strange pit-falls, and the just or (more often) unjust wrathof the Room Corporal, the Squadron Orderly Sergeant, the Rough-RidingCorporal, the Squadron Sergeant-Major, the Rough-RidingSergeant-Major, the Regimental Sergeant-Major, the Riding-Master. 

But when, to the passed "dismissed soldier, " everything is familiarand easy, weary, flat, stale and unprofitable?

The (to one gently nurtured) ghastly food, companions, environment, monotony--the ghastly ambitions!

Fancy an educated gentleman's ambitions and horizon narrowed to agood-conduct "ring, " a stripe in the far future (and to be aLance-Corporal with far more duty and no more pay, in the hope ofbecoming a Corporal--that comfortable rank with the same duty and muchmore pay, and little of the costly gold-lace to mount, and heavyexpenses to assume that, while putting the gilt on, takes it off, theposition of Sergeant); and, for the present, to "keep off the peg, "not to be "for it, " to "get the stick, " for smartest turn-out, toavoid the Red-Caps, [20] to achieve an early place in the scrimmage atthe corn-bin and to get the correct amount of two-hundred pounds inthe corn-sack when drawing forage and corn; to placate TroopSergeants, the Troop Sergeant-Major and Squadron Sergeant-Major; tohave a suit of mufti at some safe place outside and to escape from thebranding searing scarlet occasionally; possibly even the terribleambition to become an Officer's servant so as to have a suit of muftias a right, and a chance of becoming Mess-Sergeant and thenQuarter-Master, and perhaps of getting an Honorary Commission withoutdoing a single parade or guard after leaving the troop!... 

What a life for a man of breeding and refinement!... Fancy having toremember the sacred and immeasurable superiority of a foul-mouthedLance-Corporal who might well have been your own stable-boy, a beingwho can show you a deeper depth of hell in Hell, wreak his dislike ofyou in unfair "fatigues, " and keep you at the detested job ofcoal-drawing on Wednesdays; who can achieve a "canter past thebeak"[21] for you on a trumped-up charge and land you in the"digger, "[22] who can bring it home to you in a thousand ways that youare indeed the toad beneath the harrow. Fancy having to remember, night and day, that a Sergeant, who can perhaps just spell and cypher, is a monarch to be approached in respectful spirit; that theRegimental Sergeant-Major, perhaps coarse, rough, and ignorant, is anemperor to be approached with fear and trembling; that a Subaltern, perhaps at school with you, is a god not to be approached at all. Fancy looking forward to being "branded with a blasted worsted spur, "and, as a Rough-Riding Corporal, receiving a forfeit tip from eachyoung officer who knocks off his cap with his lance in Riding-School.... 

Well! One takes the rough with the smooth--but perceives with greatclearness that the (very) rough predominates, and that one does notrecommend a gentleman to enlist, save when a Distinguished Relativewith Influence has an early Commission ready in his pocket for him. 

Lacking the Relative, the gently-nurtured man, whether he win to aCommission eventually or not, can only do one thing more rash thanenlist in the British Army, and that is enlist in the French ForeignLegion. 

Discipline for soul and body? The finest thing in all the world--inreason. But the discipline of the tram-horse, of the blinded bullockat the wheel, of the well-camel, of the galley-slave--meticulous, puerile, unending, unchanging, impossible ... ? Necessary perhaps, onceupon a time--but hard on the man of brains, sensibility, heart, andindividuality. 

Soul and body? Deadly for the soul--and fairly dangerous for the bodyin the Cavalry Regiment whose riding-master prefers the abominablestripped-saddle training to the bare-backed.... 

Dam yawned and looked at the tin clock on the shelf above the cot ofthe Room Corporal. Half an hour yet.... Did time drag more heavilyanywhere in the world?... 

His mind roamed back over his brief, age-long life in the Queen'sGreys and passed it in review. 

The interview with the Doctor, the Regimental Sergeant-Major, theAdjutant, the Colonel--the Oath on the Bible before that dreadSuperman.... How well he remembered his brief exordium--"Obey yourSuperiors blindly; serve your Queen, Country, and Regiment to the bestof your ability; keep clean, don't drink, fear God, and--mostimportant of all--take care of your horse. _Take care of your horse_, d'ye hear?"

Also the drawled remark of the Adjutant afterwards, "Ah--what--ah--University?"--his own prompt reply of "Whitechapel, sir, " and the Adjutant's approving "Exactly.... You'll get on here bygood conduct, good riding, and good drill--not by--ah--good accent oranything else. "

How well he remembered the strange depolarized feeling consequentupon realizing that his whole worldly possessions consisted in three"grey-back" shirts, two pairs of cotton pants, two pairs of woollensocks, a towel; a hold-all containing razor, shaving-brush, spoon, knife and fork, and a button-stick; a cylindrical valise withhair-brush, clothes-brush, brass-brush, and boot-brushes; a whip, burnisher, and dandy-brush (all three, for some reason, to be paid foras part of a "free" kit); jack-boots and jack-spurs, wellington-bootsand swan-neck box-spurs, ammunition boots; a tin of blacking andanother of plate powder; blue, white-striped riding-breeches, blue, white-striped overalls, drill-suit of blue serge, scarlet tunic, scarlet stable-jacket, scarlet drill "frock, " a pair of trousers oflamentable cut "authorized for grooming, " brass helmet with blackhorse-hair plume, blue pill-box cap with white stripe and button, gauntlets and gloves, sword-belt and pouch-belt, a carbine and asword. Also of a daily income of one loaf, butter, tea, and a pound ofmeat (often uneatable), and the sum of one shilling and twopencesubject to a deduction of threepence a day "mess-fund, " fourpence amonth for delft, and divers others for library, washing, hair-cutting, barrack-damages, etc. 

Yes, it had given one a strange feeling of nakedness, and yet of afreedom from the tyranny of things, to find oneself so meagrely andyet so sufficiently endowed. 

Then, the strange, lost, homeless feeling that Home is nothing but acot and a box in a big bare barrack-room, that the whole of God's wideUniverse contains no private and enclosed spot that is one's ownpeculiar place wherein to be alone--at first a truly terrible feeling. 

How one envied the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major his StaffQuarters--without going so far as to envy the great Riding-Master hisreal separate and detached house!

No privacy--and a scarlet coat that encarnadined the world and madeits wearer feel, as he so often thought, like a live coal glowingbright in Hell. 

Surely the greatest of all an officer's privileges was his right ofmufti, his daily escape from the burning cloth. 

"Why does not the British officer wear his uniform always?" writes theperennial gratuitous ass to the Press, periodically in the SillySeason.... Dam could tell him. 

Memories ... !

Being jerked violently from uneasy slumber and broken, vivid dreams at5 a. M. , by the thunderous banging of the Troop Sergeant's whip on thetable, and his raucous roar of "Tumble out, you lazy swine, before youget sunstroke! Rise and shine! Rise and shine, you tripe-hounds!" ... Broken dreams on a smelly, straw-stuffed pillow and lumpystraw-stuffed pallet, dreams of "_Circle and cha-a-a-a-a-a-a-nge" "Onthe Fore-hand, Right About" "Right Pass, Shoulder Out" "Serpentine""Order Lance" "Trail Lance" "Right Front Thrust"_ (for the front rankof the Queen's Greys carry lances); dreams of riding wild mad horsesto unfathomable precipices and at unsurmountable barriers.... 

Memories ... !

His first experience of "mucking out" stables at five-thirty on achilly morning--doing horrible work, horribly clad, feeling horriblysick. Wheeling away intentionally and maliciously over-piled barrowsto the muck-pits, upsetting them, and being cursed. 

Being set to water a notoriously wild and vicious horse, and beingpulled about like a little dog at the end of the chain, burning intofrozen fingers. 

Not much of the glamour and glow and glory left!

Better were the interesting and amusing experiences of theRiding-School where his trained and perfected hands and seat gave hima tremendous advantage, an early dismissal, and some amelioration ofthe roughness of one of the very roughest experiences in a very roughlife. 

Even he, though, knew what it was to have serge breeches sticking toabraided bleeding knees, to grip a stripped saddle with twinsuppurating sores, and to burrow face-first in filthy tan _via_ theback of a stripped-saddled buck-jumper. How he had pitied some of theother recruits, making their first acquaintance with the Trooper's"long-faced chum" under the auspices of a pitiless, bitter-tonguedRough-Riding Sergeant-Major! _Rough!_ What a character the fellow was!Never an oath, never a foul word, but what a vocabulary and gift ofinvective, sarcasm and cruel stinging reproof! A well-educated man ifnot a gentleman. "Don't dismount again, Muggins--or is itJuggins?--without permission" when some poor fellow comes on his headas his horse (bare of saddle and bridle) refuses at a jump. "Get up(and SIT BACK) you--you--hen, you pierrot, you _Aard Vark, _ youafter-thought, you refined entertainer, you pimple, you performingwater-rat, you mistake, you _byle_, you drip, you worm-powder.... What? You think your leg's broken? Well--_you've got another_, haven'tyou? Get up and break that. Keep your neck till you get a strippedsaddle and no reins.... Don't embrace the horse like that, youpawn-shop, I can hear it blushing.... Send for the key and get insideit.... Keep those fine feet forward. Keep them _forward_ (and SITBACK), Juggins or Muggins, or else take them into the Infantry--whatthey were meant for by the look of them. Now then--over you go withoutfalling if I have to keep you here all night.... Look at _that_" (asthe poor fellow is thrown across the jump by the cunning brute thatknows its rider has neither whip, spurs, saddle nor reins). "What? The_horse_ refuse? One of _my_ horses _refuse? If the man'll jump, thehorse'll jump. _ (All of you repeat that after me and don't forget it. )No. It's the _man_ refuses, not the poor horse. Don't you know theancient proverb 'Faint heart ne'er took fair jump'.... ? What's thegood of coming here if your heart's the size of your eye-ball insteadof being the size of your fist? _Refuse?_ Put him over it, man. _Put_him over--SIT BACK and lift him, and _put_ him over. I'll give you athousand pounds if he refuses _me_.... "

Then the day when poor bullied, baited, nervous Muggins had reachedhis limit and come to the end of his tether--or thought he had. Bumped, banged, bucketed, thrown, sore from head to foot, raw-kneed, laughed at, lashed by the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major's cruel tongue, blind and sick with dust and pain and rage, he had at last turned hishorse inward from his place in the ride to the centre of the School, and dismounted. 

How quaintly the tyrant's jaw had dropped in sheer astonishment, andhow his face had purpled with rage when he realized that his eyes hadnot deceived him and that the worm had literally turned--withoutorders. 

Indian, African, and Egyptian service, disappointment, and a bad wifehad left Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major Blount with a dangerous temper. 

Poor silly Muggins. He had been Juggins indeed on that occasion, and, as the "ride" halted of its own accord in awed amazement, Dam hadlonged to tell him so and beg him to return to his place ere worsebefell.... 

"I've 'ad enough, you bull-'eaded brute, " shouted poor Muggins, leaving his horse and advancing menacingly upon his (incalculably)superior officer, "an' fer two damns I'd break yer b---- jaw, I would. You ... "

Even as the Rough-Riding Corporal and two other men were dragging thestruggling, raving recruit to the door, _en route_ for the Guard-room, entered the great remote, dread Riding-Master himself. 

"What's this?" inquired Hon. Captain Style, Riding-Master of theQueen's Greys, strict, kind-hearted martinet. 

Salute, and explanations from the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major. 

Torrent of accusation and incoherent complaint and threat from thebaited Muggins. 

"Mount that horse, " says the Riding-Master. 

"I'll go to Clink first, " gasps Muggins. "I'll go to 'Ell first. "

"No. _Afterwards, _" replies the Riding-Master and sends theRough-Riding Corporal for the backboard--dread instrument ofequestrian persuasion. 

Muggins is forcibly mounted, put in the lunging ring and sent roundand round till he throws himself off at full gallop and lies cryingand sobbing like a child--utterly broken. 

Riding-Master smiles, allows Muggins to grow calmer, accepts hisapologies and promises, shows him he has had his Hell _after_, aspromised, and that it is a better punishment than one that leaves himwith a serious "crime" entry on his Defaulter's Sheet for life.... That vile and damning sheet that records the youthful peccadilloes andkeeps it a life-long punishment after its own severe punishment.... To the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major he quietly remarks: "No goodnon-com _makes_ crimes ... And don't forget that the day ofriding-school brutality is passing. You can carry a man further thanyou can kick him. "

And the interrupted lesson continues. 

"Sit _back_ and you can't come off. Nobody falls off backwards. " ... 

Poor "Old Sit-Back"! (as he was called from his constant cry)--aftergiving that order and guarantee daily for countless days--was killedin the riding-school by coming off backwards from the stripped saddleof a rearing horse--(which promptly fell upon him and crushed hischest)--that had never reared before and would not have reared then, it was said, but for the mysterious introduction, under its saddle, ofa remarkably "foreign" body. 

Memories ... !

How certain old "Sit-Back" had been that Dam was a worthless"back-to-the-Army-again" when he found him a finished horseman, anextraordinarily expert swordsman, and a master of the lance. 

"You aren't old enough for a 'time-expired, '" he mused, "nor for acashiered officer. One of the professional 'enlist-desert-and-sell-me-kit, 'I suppose. Anyhow you'll do time for one of the three if _I_ don'tapprove of ye.... You've been in the Cavalry before. Lancer regiment, too. Don't tell _me_ lies ... But see to it that I'm satisfied with yourconduct. Gentlemen-rankers are better in their proper place--_Jail_. " ... 

None the less it had given Dam a thrill of pride when, on beingdismissed recruit-drills and drafted from the reserve troop to asquadron, the Adjutant had posted him to E Troop, wherein werecongregated the seven other undoubted gentlemen-rankers of the Queen'sGreys (one of whom would one day become a peer of the realm and, meantime, followed what he called "the only profession in the world"in discomfort for a space, the while his Commission ripened). 

To this small band of "rankers" the accession of the finest boxer, swordsman, and horseman in the corps, was invaluable, and helped themnotably in their endeavour to show that there are exceptions to allrules, and that a gentleman _can_ make a first-class trooper. At leastso "Peerson" had said, and Dam had been made almost happy for a day. 

Memories ... !

His first walk abroad from barracks, clad in the "walking-out" fineryof shell-jacket and overalls, with the jingle of spurs and effort atthe true Cavalry swagger, or rather the first attempt at a walkabroad, for the expedition had ended disastrously ere well begun. Unable to shake off his admirer, Trooper Herbert Hawker, Dam had justpassed the Main Guard and main gates in the company of Herbert, andthe two recruits had encountered the Adjutant and saluted with theutmost smartness and respect.... 

"What the Purple Hell's that thing?" had drawled the Adjutantthereupon--pointing his whip at Trooper Henry Hawker, whose trap-likemouth incontinent fell open with astonishment. "It's got up in animitation of the uniform of the Queen's Greys, I do believe!... It'snot a rag doll either.... It's a God-forsaken undertaker's mute in ared and black shroud with a cake-tin at the back of its turnip headand a pair of chemises on its ugly hands.... Sergeant of the Guard!... Here!"

"Sir?" and a salute of incredible precision from the Sergeant of theGuard. 

"What the name of the Devil's old Aunt is _this_ thing? What are youon Guard for? To write hymns and scare crows--or to allow decayedcharwomen to stroll out of barracks in a dem parody of your uniform?Look at her! Could turn round in the jacket without taking it off. Room for both legs in one of the overalls. Cap on his beastly neck. Gloves like a pair of ... _Get inside you_!... Take the thing in witha pair of tongs and bury it where it won't contaminate the dung-pits. Burn it! Shoot it! Drown it! D'ye hear?... And then I'll put you underarrest for letting it pass.... "

It had been a wondrously deflated and chapfallen Herbert that hadslunk back to the room of the reserve troop, and perhaps hisreputation as a mighty bruiser had never stood him in so good stead aswhen it transpired that an Order had been promulgated that no recruitshould leave barracks during the first three months of his service, and that the names of all such embryos should be posted in the MainGuard for the information of the Sergeant.... 

Memories ... !

His first march behind the Band to Church.... 

The first Review and March Past.... 

His first introduction to bread-and-lard.... 

His wicked carelessness in forgetting--or attempting to disregard--thelaw of the drinking-troughs. "So long as one horse has his head downno horse is to go. " There had been over a score drinking and he hadmoved off while one dipsomaniac was having a last suck. 

His criminal carelessness in not removing his sword and leaving it inthe Guard-room, when going on sentry after guard-mounting--"gettingthe good Sergeant into trouble, too, and making it appear that _he_had been equally criminally careless ". 

The desperate quarrel between Hawker and Bone as to whether the 10thHussars were called the "Shiny Tenth" because of their generalmaterial and spiritual brilliance, or the "Chainy Tenth" because theirOfficers wore pouch-belts of gold chain-mail.... The similar onebetween Buttle and Smith as to the reason of a brother regiment beingknown as "The Virgin Mary's Body-guard, " and their reluctantacceptance of Dam's dictum that they were both wrong, it having beenearned by them in the service of a certain Maria Theresa, a ladyunknown to Messrs. Buttle and Smith.... Dam had found himselfdeveloping into a positive bully in his determination to preventsenseless quarrelling, senseless misconduct, senseless humourlessfoulness, senseless humourless blasphemy, and all that unnecessary, avoidable ugliness that so richly augmented the unavoidable.... 

Memories ... !

Sitting throughout compulsory church, cursing and mutinous of heart, because after spending several hours of the Day of Rest in burnishingand pipe-claying, blacking and shining ("Sunday spit an' polish"), hewas under orders for sharp punishment--because at the last moment histunic had been fouled by a passing pigeon! When would the Authoritiesrealize that soldiers are still men, still Englishmen (even if theyhave, by becoming soldiers, lost their birthright of appeal to the Lawof the Land, though not their amenability to its authority), and ceaseto make the Blessed Sabbath a curse, the worst day of the week, and toherd angry, resentful soldiers into church to blaspheme with politelypious faces? Oh, British, British, Pharisees and Humbugs--make Sundaya curse, and drive the soldier into church to do his cursing--make itthe chief day of dress "crimes" and punishments, as well as thebusiest day, and force the soldier into church to Return Thanks.... 

The only man in the world flung into church as though into jail forpunishment! Shout it in the Soldier's ear, "_You are not a Man, youare a Slave_, " on Sundays also, on Sundays louder than usual.... Andwhen he has spent his Sunday morning in extra hard labour, insuffering the indignity of being compulsorily marched to church, andvery frequently of having been punished because it is a good day onwhich a Sergeant may decide that he is not sufficiently cleanly shavedor his boots of minor effulgence--then let him sit and watch his hotSunday dinner grow stone cold before the Colonel stalks through theroom, asks a perfunctory question, and he is free to fall to. 

"O Day of Rest and Gladness, O Day of Joy most Bright.... "

_Yah!_

A pity some of the energy that went to making the annual 20, 000military "criminals" out of honest, law-abiding, well-intending mencould not go to harassing the Canteen instead of the soldier (whom theCanteen swindles right and left, and whence _he_ gets salt-waterybeer, and an "ounce" of tobacco that will go straight into his pipe inone "fill"--no need to wrap it up, thank you) and discovering howhandsome fortunes, as well as substantial "illegal gratifications, "are made out of his much-stoppaged one-and-tuppence-a-week. 

Did the Authorities really yearn to _dis_courage enlistment and to_en_courage desertion and "crime"? When would they realize that making"crimes, " and manufacturing "criminals" from honest men, is _not_discipline, is _not_ making soldiers, is _not_ improving the Army--is_not_ common ordinary sanity and sense? When would they break theirdull, unimaginative, hide-bound--no, tape-bound--souls from the ideasthat prevailed before (and murdered) the Crimean Army.... The Army isnot now the sweepings of the jails, and more in need of the wild-beasttamer than of the kind firm teacher, as once it was. How long willthey continue to suppose that you make a fine fighting-man, and aself-reliant, intelligent soldier, by treating him as a depravedchild, as a rightless slave, as a mindless automaton, and byencouraging the public (whom he protects) to regard him as a lowcriminal ruffian to be classed with the broad-arrowed convict, and tobe excluded from places where any loafing rotten lout may go.... Whenwould a lawyer-ridden Army Council realize that there is a trifle ofsignificance in the fact that there are four times as many soldiersuicides as there are civilian, and that the finest advertisement forthe dwindling Army _is the soldier_. To think that sober men should, with one hand spend vast sums in lying advertisements for the Army, and with the other maintain a system that makes the soldier onfurlough reply to the question "Shall I enlist, mate?" with the words"Not while you got a razor to cut yer throat".... Ah, well, commonsense would reach even the Army some day, and the soldier be treatedand disciplined as a man and a citizen--and perhaps, when it did, andthe soldier gave a better description of his life, the other citizen, the smug knave who despises him while he shelters behind him, willbecome less averse from having his own round shoulders straightened, his back flattened and his muscles developed as he takes his part inthe first fundamental elementary duty of a citizen--preparation forthe defence of hearth and home.... Lucille! Well ... Thank God shecould not see him and know his life. If _she_ had any kindness leftfor him she would suffer to watch him eating well-nigh uneatable food, grooming a horse, sweeping a stable, polishing trestle-legs withblacklead, scrubbing floors, sleeping on damp straw, carrying coals, doing scullion-work for uneducated roughs, being brow-beaten, bullied, and cursed by them in tight-lipped silence--not that these thingstroubled him personally--the less idle leisure for thought the better, and no real man minds physical hardship--there is no indignity inlabour _per se_ any more than there is dignity.... 

"'Ere, Maffewson, you bone-idle, moonin' waster, " bawled the raucousvoice of Lance-Corporal Prag, and Dam's soaring spirit fell to earth. 

The first officer to whom Trooper Matthewson gave his smart respectfulsalute as he stood on sentry-duty was the Major, the Second-in-Commandof the Queen's Greys, newly rejoined from furlough, --a belted Earl, famous for his sporting habit of riding always and everywhere withouta saddle--who, as a merry subaltern, had been Lieutenant LordOchterlonie and Adjutant of the Queen's Greys at Bimariabad in India. There, he had, almost daily, taken upon his knee, shoulder, saddle, or dog-cart, the chubby son of his polo and pig-sticking exemplar, Colonel Matthew Devon de Warrenne. 

The sentry had a dim idea that he had seen the Major somewhere before. 

CHAPTER IX. 

A SNAKE AVENGES A HADDOCK AND LUCILLE BEHAVES IN AN UN-SMELLIEANMANNER. 

Finding himself free for the afternoon, and the proud possessor ofseveral shillings, "Trooper Matthewson" decided to walk to Folkestone, attend an attractively advertised concert on the pier, and thenindulge in an absolutely private meal in some small tea-room orconfectioner's shop. 

Arrayed in scarlet shell-jacket, white-striped overalls, and pill-boxcap, he started forth, carrying himself as though exceeding proud tobe what he was, and wondering whether a swim in the sea, which shouldend somewhere between Shorncliffe and Dieppe (and end his troublestoo), would not be a better pastime. 

Arrived at the Folkestone pier, Dam approached the ticket office atthe entrance and tendered his shilling to the oily-curled, curly-nosedyoung Jew who sat at the receipt of custom. 

"Clear out o' this, " said Levi Solomonson. 

"I want a ticket for the concert, " said Dam, not understanding. 

"Would you like a row o' stalls to sprawl your dirty carcase on?... Outside, I tell yer, Tommy Atkins, this ain't a music-'all nor yet apub. Soldiers _not_ ''alf-price to cheap seats' nor yetfull-price--nor yet for ten pound a time. Out yer go, lobster. "

The powerful hand of Damocles de Warrenne approached the window and, for a second, Mr. Levi Solomonson was in danger--but only for asecond. Dam was being well-broken-in, and quickly realized that he wasno longer a free British citizen entitled to the rights of such solong as he behaved as a citizen should, but a mere horrible defenderof those of his countrymen, who were averse from the toils andpossible dangers of self-defence. It was brought home to him, then andthere, with some clearness, that the noble Britons who (perhaps)"never never will be slaves, " have a fine and high contempt for thosewhose life-work is to save them from that distressing position; thatthe noble Briton, while stoutly (and truly Britishly) refusing to hearof universal service and the doing by each man of his first duty tothe State, is informed with a bitter loathing of those who, forwretched hire and under wretched conditions, perform those duties forhim. Dam did not mind, though he did not enjoy, doing housemaid's workin the barrack-room, scrubbing floors, blackleading iron table-legsand grates, sweeping, dusting, and certain other more unpleasantmenial tasks; he did not mind, though he did not like, "mucking-out"stables and scavenging; he could take at their proper value theinsults of ignorant boors set in authority over him; he could stand, if not enjoy, the hardships of the soldier's life--but he did _not_see why his doing his duty in that particular sphere--an arduous, difficult, and frequently dangerous sphere--should earn him the unitedinsult of the united public! Why should an educated and cultured man, a gentleman in point of fact, be absolutely prohibited from hearing a"classical" concert because he wore the Queen's uniform and did thatmost important and necessary work which the noble Briton is tooslack-baked, too hypocritically genteel, too degenerate, to perform, each man for himself?

In a somewhat bitter frame of mind the unfortunate young man strolledalong the Leas and seated himself on a public bench, honestlywondering as he did so, whether he were sufficiently a member of thegreat and glorious public to have a right to do it while wearing thedisgraceful and disgracing garb of a Trooper of the Queen.... Membersof that great and glorious public passed him by in rapid succession. Narrow-chested youths of all classes, and all crying aloud inslack-lipped silence for the drill-sergeant to teach them how to standand walk; for the gymnasium-instructor to make them, what they wouldnever be, _men_; for some one to give them an aim and an ideal beyondcigarettes, socks, and giggling "gels" or "gals" or "garls" or"gyurls" or "gurrls" according to their social sphere. Vast-stomachedmiddle-aged men of all classes, and all crying aloud in fat-lippedsilence of indulgence, physical sloth, physical decay before physicalprime should have been reached, of mental, moral, and physicaldecadence from the great Past incredible, and who would one and all, if asked, congratulate themselves on living in these glorious moderntimes of 'igh civilization and not in the dark, ignorant days of old. 

(Decidedly a bitter young man, this. )

Place Mister Albert Pringle, Insurance Agent; Mister Peter Snagget, Grocer; Mister Alphonso Pumper, Rate Collector; Mister Bill 'Iggins, Publican; Mister Walter Weed, Clerk; Mister Jeremiah Ramsmouth, LocalPreacher; Mr. 'Ookey Snagg, Loafer; Mister William Guppy, Potman--place them beside Hybrias, Goat-herd; Damon, Shepherd;Phydias, Writer; Nicarchus, Ploughman; Balbus, Bricklayer; Glaucus, Potter; Caius, Carter; Marcus, Weaver; Aeneas, Bronze-worker;Antonius, Corn-seller; Canidius, Charioteer--and then talk of theglorious modern times of high civilization and the dark ignorant daysof old!... 

And as he sat musing thus foolishly and pessimistically, who shouldloom upon his horizon but--of all people in the world--the Haddock, the fishy, flabby, stale, unprofitable Haddock! Most certainly Solomonin all his glory was not arrayed like this. A beautiful confection ofpearly-grey, pearl-buttoned flannel draped his droopy form, apearly-grey silk tie, pearl-pinned, encircled his lofty collar, pearly-grey silk socks spanned the divorcing gap 'twixt beautiful greykid shoes and correctest trousers, a pearly-grey silk handkerchiefpeeped knowingly from the cuff of his pearly-grey silk shirt by hispearly-grey kid glove, and his little cane was of grey lacquer, and ofpearl handle. One could almost have sworn that a pearl-grey smileadorned the scarce-shut mouth of the beautiful modern product ofeducation and civilization, to carry on the so well-devisedcolour-scheme to the pearly-grey grey-ribboned soft hat. 

The Haddock's mind wandered not in empty places, but wrestled sternlywith the problem--_would_ it not have been better, after all, perhaps, to have worn the pearly-grey spats (with the pearl buttons) instead ofrelying on the pearly-grey socks alone? When one sat down and modestlyprotruded an elegant foot as one crossed one's legs and gently drew upone's trouser (lest a baggy knee bring black shame), one could displayboth--the spat itself, _and_, above it, the sock. Of course! To thepasser-by, awe-inspired, admiring, stimulated, would then have beenadministered the double shock and edification. While gratefullyobserving the so-harmonizing grey spat and grey shoe he would havenoted the Ossa of grey silk sock piled upon that Pelion ofultra-fashionable foot-joy! Yes. He had acted hastily and had erredand strayed from the Perfect Way--and a cloud, at first no bigger thana continent or two, arose and darkened his mental sky. 

But what of the cloud that settled upon him, black as that of thenight's Plutonian shore, a cloud much bigger than the Universe, whena beastly, awful, ghastly, common private soldier arose from a seat--acommon seat for which you do not pay a penny and show yourselectitude--arose, I say, from a beastly common seat and SEIZED HIMBY THE ARM and remarked in horrible, affected, mocking tones:--

"And how's the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, commonbreakfast Haddock?"

Yes, in full sight of the Leas of Folkestone, and the nobility, gentry, shopmen, nurse-girls, suburban yachtsmen, nuts, noisettes, bath-chairmen and all the world of rank and fashion, a common soldiertook the pearly-grey arm of _the_ Haddon Berners as he took the airand walked abroad to give the public a treat. And proved to be hisshameful, shameless, disgraced, disgraceful, cowardly relative, Damocles de Warrenne!

The Haddock reeled, but did not fall. 

On catching sight of the beautiful young man, Dam's first impulse wasto spring up and flee, his second to complete the work of Mr. LeviSolomonson of the pier concert and see for himself, once again, how hewas regarded by the eyes of all right-minded and respectable membersof society, including those of a kinsman with whom he had grown up. 

Yes, in his bitterness of soul, and foolish youthful revolt againstFate, he was attracted by the idea of claiming acquaintance with thesuperb Haddock in his triumphant progress, take him by the arm, andsolemnly march him the whole length of the Leas! He would, by Jove!_He did_. 

Confronting the resplendent languid loafer, he silkily observed, as heplaced his cutting-whip beneath his left arm and extended his whitecotton-gloved right hand:--

"And how's the charming little Haddock, the fourpenny, commonbreakfast Haddock?"

Had it been Ormonde Delorme, any friend of Monksmead days, any schoolor Sandhurst acquaintance, had it been any other relative, had it beenLucille, he would have fled for his life, he would have seen his handparalysed ere he would have extended it, he would have been struckdumb rather than speak, he would have died before he would haveinflicted upon them the indignity of being seen in the company of acommon soldier. But the Haddock! 'twould do the Haddock a world ofgood; the Haddock who had mocked him as he fought for sanity and lifeon the lawn at Monksmead--the Haddock who "made love" to Lucille. 

The Haddock affected not to see the hand. 

"I--er--don't--ah--know you, surely, do I?" he managed to mumble as hebacked away and turned to escape. 

"Probably not, dear Haddock, " replied the embittered desperate Dam, "but you're going to. We're going for a walk together. "

"Are you--ah--dwunk, fellow? Do you suppose I walkwith--ah--_soldiers_?"

"I don't, my Fish, but you're going to now--if I have to carry you. And if I have to do that I'll slap you well, when I put you down!"

"I'll call a policeman and give you in charge if you dare molest me. What do you--ah--desire? Money?... If you come to my hotel thisevening--" and the hapless young man was swung round, his limp thinarm tucked beneath a powerful and mighty one, and he was whirled alongat five miles an hour in the direction of the pier, gasping, feeblystruggling, and a sight to move the High Gods to pity. 

"To the pier, my Haddock, and then back to the turnpike gate, and ifyou let a yell, or signal a policeman, I'll twist your little neck. Fancy our Haddock in a vulgar street row with a common soldier and inthe Police Court! Step it out, you worm!"

Then the agonized Haddock dropped pretence. 

"Oh, Dam, I'm awf'ly sorry. I apologize, old chap. _Let up_--Isay--this is _awful_.... Good God, here's Lady Plonk, the Mayor'swife!"

"You shall introduce me, Lovely One--but no, we mustn't annoy ladies. You must _not_ go trying to introduce your low companions--nay, relations--to Lady Plonkses. Step out--and look happy. "

"Dam--for God's sake, let me go! I didn't know you, old chap. I swearI didn't. The disgrace will kill me. I'll give you--"

"Look here, wee Fish, you offer me money again and I'll--I'll undressyou and run away with your clothes. I will, upon my soul. "

"I shall call to this policeman, " gasped the Haddock. 

"And appear with your low-class _relation_ in Court? Not you, Haddock. I'd swear you were my twin brother, and that you wouldn't pay me thefour pence you borrowed of me last week. "

And the cruel penance was inflicted to the last inch. Near the end theHaddock groaned: "Here's Amelia Harringport--Oh! my God, " and Damquickly turned his face unto the South and gazed at the fair land ofFrance. He remembered that General Harringport dwelt in these parts. 

At the toll-gate Dam released the perspiration-soaked wretch, who hadsuffered the torments of the damned, and who seemed to have met everyman and woman whom he knew in the world as he paraded the promenadehanging lovingly to the arm of a common soldier! He thought of suicideand shuddered at the bare idea. 

"Well, I'm awf'ly sorry to have to run away and leave you now, dearHaddock. I might have taken you to all the pubs in Folkestone if I'dhad time. I might have come to your hotel and dined with you. You_will_ excuse me, won't you? I _must_ go now. I've got to wash up thetea things and clean the Sergeant's boots, " said Dam, cruelly wringingthe Haddock's agonized soft hand, and, with a complete anddisconcerting change, added, "And if you breathe a word about havingseen me, at Monksmead, or tell Lucille, _I'll seek you out, myHaddock_, and--we will hold converse with thee". Then he strode away, cursing himself for a fool, a cad, and a deteriorated, demoralizedruffian. Anyhow, the Haddock would not mention the appalling incidentand give him away. 

Nemesis followed him. 

Seeking a quiet shop in a back street where he could have thelong-desired meal in private, he came to a small taxidermist's, glanced in as he passed, and beheld the pride and joy of thetaxidermist's heart--a magnificent and really well-mountedboa-constrictor, and fell shrieking, struggling, and screaming in thegutter. 

That night Damocles de Warrenne, ill, incoherent, and delirious, passed in a cell, on a charge of drunk and disorderly and disgracingthe Queen's uniform. 

Mr. Levi Solomonson had not disgraced it, of course. 

"If we were not eating this excellent bread-and-dripping and drinkingthis vile tea, what would you like to be eating and drinking, Matthewson?" asked Trooper Nemo (formerly Aubrey Roussac d'Aubigny ofHarrow and Trinity). 

"Oh, ... A little real turtle, " said Dam, "just a lamina of _solefrite_, a trifle of _vol an vent ŕ la financičre_, a breast ofpartridge, a mite of _paté de fois gras_, a peach _ŕ la Melba_, theroe of a bloater, and a few fat grapes--"

"'Twould do. 'Twould pass, " sighed Trooper Burke, and added, "I wouldsuggest a certain Moselle I used to get at the Byculla Club in Bombay, and a wondrous fine claret that spread a ruby haze of charm o'er mylunch at the Yacht Club of the same fair city. A '_Mouton Rothschild_something, ' which was cheap at nine rupees a small bottle on themorrow of a good day on the Mahaluxmi Racecourse. " (It was stronglysuspected that Trooper Burke had worn a star on his shoulder-strap inthose Indian days. )

"It's an awful shame we can't all emerge from the depths and run up toTown to breathe the sweet original atmosphere for just one nightbefore we leave old England, " put in Trooper Punch Peerson (son of anoble lord) who would at that moment have been in the Officers' Messbut for a congenital weakness in spelling and a dislike ofmathematics. "Pity we can't get 'leaf, ' and do ourselves glorious atthe Carlton, and 'afterwards'. We could change at my Governor's placeinto borrowed, stolen, and hired evening-kit, paint the village asscarlet as Sin or a trooper's jacket, and then come home, like theBlackbird, to tea. I am going, and if I can't get 'leaf' I shallreturn under the bread in the rations-cart. Money's the root of all(successful) evil. "

Trooper Punch Peerson was a born leader of men, a splendid horsemanand soldier, and he had the Army in his ardent, gallant blood andbones; but how shall a man head a cavalry charge or win the love andenthusiastic obedience of men and horses when he is weak in spellingand has a dislike of mathematics?

However, he was determined to follow in the footsteps of hisancestors, to serve his country in spite of her, and his Commissionwas certain and near. Meanwhile he endeavoured to be a first-classtrooper, had his uniform made of officers' materials in Bond Street byhis father's famous tailor, and "got the stick" with ease andfrequency. 

"We're not all gilded popinjays (nor poppin' bottles), " observed ayoung giant who called himself Adam Goate, and had certainly been onein the days when he was Eugene Featherstonthwaite. "All very well foryou to come to the surface and breathe, seeing that you'll be out ofit soon. You're having nothing but a valuable experience and ahardening. You're going through the mill. We've got to _live_ in it. What's the good of our stirring everything up again? Dam-silly of askinned eel to grow another skin, to be skinned again.... No, 'myco-mates and brothers in exile, ' what I say is--you can get just asdrunk on 'four-'arf' as on champagne, and a lot cheaper. Ask myhonourable friend, Bear. "

(Trooper Bear gave a realistic, but musical hiccup. )

"Also, to the Philosopher, bread-and-dripping is as interesting anddesirable prog as the voluble-varied heterogeny of the menu at theCarlton or the Ritz--'specially when you've no choice. "

"Hear, hear, " put in Dam. 

"Goatey ol' Goate!" said Trooper Bear with impressive solemnity. "Giveme your hand, Philossiler. I adore dripping. I'ss a (hic) mystery. (No, I don' want both hands, " as Goate offered his right to Bear'swarm embrace. ) I'm a colliseur of Dripping. I understan' it. Iwrite odes to it. Yesh. A basin of dripping is like a Woman. 'Strornarillily. You never know what's beneath fair surface.... Belowa placid, level, unrevealing surface there may be--nothing ... Andthere may be a rich deposit of glorious, stimulating, piquant_essence_. "

"Oh, shut up, Bear, and don't be an Ass, " implored Trooper Burke(formerly Desmond Villiers FitzGerald) ... "but I admit, all the same, there's lots of worse prog in the Officers' Mess than a crisp crustgenerously bedaubed with the rich jellified gravy that (occasionally)lurks like rubies beneath the fatty soil of dripping. "

"Sound plan to think so, anyway, " agreed Trooper Little (_ci devant_Man About Town and the Honourable Bertie Le Grand). "Reminds me of aproverb I used to hear in Alt Heidelberg, _'What I have in my hand isbest'_. "

"Qui' sho, " murmured Trooper Bear with a seraphic smile, "an' wha' Ihave in my 'place of departed _spirits_, ' my tummy, is better. Glor'usmixshure. Earned an honest penny sheven sheparate times cleaning the'coutrements of better men ... _'an look at me for shevenpence'_ ... "and he slept happily on Dam's shoulder. 

In liquor, Trooper Bear was, if possible, gentler, kinder, and ofsweeter disposition than when sober; wittier, more hopelessly lovableand disarming. These eight men--the "gentlemen-rankers" of theQueen's Greys, made it a point of honour to out-Tommy "Tommy" astroopers, and, when in his company, to show a heavier cavalry-swagger, a broader accent, a quiffier "quiff, " a cuttier cutty-pipe, a smartersmartness; to groom a horse better, to muck out a stall better, toscrub a floor better, to spring more smartly to attention or to adisagreeable "fatigue, " and to set an example of Tomminess fromturning out on an Inspection Parade to waxing a moustache. 

Trooper Bear professed to specialize as a model in the carrying ofliquor "like a man and a soldier". When by themselves, they made it apoint of honour to behave and speak as though in the clubs to whichthey once belonged, to eat with washen hands and ordered attire, tobehave at table and elsewhere with that truest of consideration thatoffends no man willingly by mannerism, appearance, word or act, andwhich is the whole Art of Gentility. 

They carefully avoided any appearance of exclusiveness, but soughtevery legitimate opportunity of united companionship, and formed a"mess" of eight at a table which just held that number, and on acouple of benches each of which exactly fulfilled the slang expression"room for four Dragoons on a form". 

It was their great ambition to avoid the reproach of earning thesoubriquet "gentleman-ranker, " a term that too often, and too justly, stinks in the nostrils of officer, non-commissioned officer, and man(for, as a rule, the "gentleman-ranker" is a complete failure as agentleman and a completer one as a ranker). 

To prove a rule by a remarkably fine exception, these eight were amongthe very smartest and best troopers of one of the smartest and bestCorps in the world--and to Damocles de Warrenne, their "Society of theKnights of the dirty Square Table" was a Rock and a Salvation in themidst of a howling sea of misery--a cool pool in a searing brandingHell. 

Trooper Bear's brief nap appeared to have revived him wonderfully. 

"Let us, like the Hosts of Midian, prowl around this happy Sabbetheve, my dear, " quoth he to Dam, "and, like wise virgins, up and smitethem, when we meet the Red-Caps.... No, I'm getting confused. It'sthey up and smite us, when we've nothing to tip them.... I feel Icould be virtuous in your company--since you never offer beer to the(more or less) fatherless and widowed--and since I'm stony. How _did_you work that colossal drunk, Matty, when you came home on a stretcherand the Red-Caps said you _'was the first-classest delirious-trimmingsas ever was, aseein' snakes somethink 'orrible, '_ and in no wise to bepersuaded _'as 'ow there wasn't one underyer bloomin' foot the 'oletime'_. Oh you teetotallers!"

Dam shuddered and paled. "Yes, let's go for as long a walk as we canmanage, and get as far from this cursed place as time allows, " hereplied. 

His hair was still short and horribly hacked from the prison-crop hehad had as a preliminary to "168 hours cells, " for "drunk anddisorderly". 

"I'll come too, " announced the Honourable Bertie. 

"Yes, " chimed in Trooper Adam Goate, "let's go and gladden the eyes, if not the hearts of the nurse-maids of Folkestone. "

"Bless their nurse-maidenly hearts, " murmured Trooper Bear. "One madehonourable proposals of marriage to me, quite recently, in return formy catching the runaway hat of her young charge.... Come on. " And indue course the four derelicts set forth with a uniformity of step andaction that corresponded with their uniformity of dress. 

"Let's take the Lower Road, " said Dam, as they reached the westernlimit of the front at Folkestone. "I fear we rather contaminate thepure social air of the Upper Road and the fashionable promenade. "

"Where every prospect pleases and only man, in the Queen's uniform, isvile, " observed Trooper Bear. 

Dam remembered afterwards that it was he who sought the quiet LowerRoad--and he had good reason to remember it. For suddenly, afashionably dressed and beautiful young girl, sitting alone in apassing private victoria, stood up, called "Stop! Stop!" to thecoachman, and ere the carriage well came to a standstill, sprang out, rushed up to the double file of soldiers, and flung her arms aroundthe neck of the outside one of the front rank. 

With a cry of "Oh, _Dam_! Oh, _Dammy_!"--a cry that mightilyscandalized a serious-minded policeman who stood monumentally at thecorner--she kissed him again and again!

Troopers Bear, Goate, and Little, halting not in their stride, glancing not unto the right hand nor unto the left hand, speaking noword, and giving no sign of surprise, marched on in perfect silence, until Trooper Bear observed to the world in general "The lady was_not_ swearing. His _name_ must be Dam--short for Damon or Pythias orIphigenia or something which we may proceed to forget.... Poor oldchappie--no wonder he's taking to secret drinking. _I_ should drink, myself. _Poor_ chap!" and Trooper Goate, heaving a sympathetic sigh, murmured also "Poor chap!"

But Trooper Little, once the Hon. Bertie Le Grand, thought "Poor_lady_!"

 * * * * *

The heart of Damocles de Warrenne bounded within him, stood still, andthen seemed like to burst. 

"Oh, _Lucille_! Oh, darling!" he groaned, as he kissed her fiercelyand then endeavoured to thrust her from him. "Jump into your carriagequickly. _Lucille_--Don't ... _Here_ ... ! Not _here_.... People arelooking ... _You ... !_ A common soldier.... Let me go. Quick.... Yourcarriage.... Some one may--"

"Let you _go_, darling ... ! Now I have found you.... If you sayanother word I'll serve you as you served the Haddock. I'll hang on toyour arm right along the Leas. I'll hang round your neck and scream ifyou try to run away. This is poetic justice, darling. Now you know howour Haddock felt. _No_--I _won't_ leave go of your sleeve. Where shallwe go, dearest darling Dammy. Dare you drive up and down the Frontwith me in Amelia Harringport's sister's young man's mother'svictoria? oh, my _darling_ Dam.... " and Lucille burst into happytears. 

"Go up that winding path and I'll follow in a minute. There will besecluded seats. "

"And you'll bolt directly I leave go of you?... I--"

"No, darling, God knows I should if I were a man, but I can't, _Ican't_. Oh, Lucille!"

"Stay here, " cried the utterly fearless, unashamed girl to theunspeakably astounded coachman of the mother of the minor Canon whohad the felicity of being Amelia Harringport's sister's young man, andshe strode up the pathway that wound, tree-shaded, along the front ofthe gently sloping cliff. 

In the utter privacy of a small seat-enclosing, bush-hidden half-cave, Damocles de Warrenne crushed Lucille to his breast as she again flungher arms around his neck. 

"Oh, Lucille, how _could_ you expose yourself to scandal like that; Iought to be hung for not taking to my heels as you came, but I couldnot believe my eyes, I thought I was going mad again, " and heshivered. 

"What should I have cared if every soul in the world who knows me hadarranged himself and herself in rows and ranks to get a good view? I'dhave done the same if Grumper had been beside me in the carriage. Whatis the rest of the World to me, beside _you_, darling?... Oh, your_poor_ hair, and what is that horrid scar, my dearest? And you are a'2 Q. G. ' are you, and how soon may you marry? I'm going to disappearfrom Monksmead, now, just like you did, darling, and I'm coming hereand I'm going to be a soldier's wife. Can I live with you in yourhouse in barracks, Dammy, or must I live outside, and you come homedirectly your drill and things are finished?"

Dam groaned aloud in hopeless bitterness of soul. 

"Lucille--listen, " said he. "I earn one-and tuppence a day. I may notmarry. If you were a factory-girl or a coster-woman I would not dragyou down so. Apart from that, I am unfit to marry any decent woman. Iam--what you know I am.... I have--fits. I am not--sound--normal--Imay go m.... "

"Don't be a pure priceless Ass, darling. You are my own splendidhero--and I am going to marry you, if I have to _be_ a factory-girl ora coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you. You want looking after, my own boy. I shall have some money, though, when I am of age. When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?"

"Lucille, " groaned the miserable man. "Do you think that the sight ofyou in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier? Can't yourealize that I'm ruined and done--disgraced and smashed? Lucille, I amnot sane at times.... The SNAKE ... _Do_ you love me, Lucille? Then ifso, I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to waitawhile and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome _man_--who isneither a coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic. Lucille, you doubleand treble my misery. I _can't_ bear it if I see you. Oh, why didn'tyou forget me and do the right and proper thing? I am unfit to touchyou! I am a damned scoundrel to be here now, " and leaping up he fledlike a maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road, nor ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spotwhereon he had suffered as he believed few men had done before. 

And thus and thus we women live!With none to question, none to giveThe Nay or Aye, the Aye or NayThat might smoothe half our cares away. O, strange indeed! And sad to knowWe pitch too high and doing so, Intent and eager not to fall, We miss the low clear note of call. Why is it so? Are we indeedSo like unto the shaken reed?Of such poor clay? Such puny strength?That e'en throughout the breadth and lengthOf purer vision's stern domainWe bend to serve and serve in vain?To some, indeed, strange power is lentTo stand content. Love, heaven-sent, (For things or high or pure or rare)Shows likest God, makes Life less bare. And, ever and anon there strayIn faint far-reaching virčlayThe songs of angels, Heav'nward-found, Of little children, earthward-bound. 

A. L. WREN. 

CHAPTER X. 

MUCH ADO ABOUT ALMOST NOTHING--A TROOPER. 

Mr. Ormonde Delorme, Second Lieutenant of the 34th Lancers, sat in hisquarters at Aldershot, reading and re-reading with mingled feelings aletter from the woman he loved. 

It is one thing to extract a promise from The Woman that she will turnto you for help if ever your help should be needed (knowing that therecould be no greater joy than to serve her at any cost whatsoever, though it led to death or ruin), but it is quite another thing whenthat help is invited for the benefit of the successful rival!

To go to the world's end for Lucille were a very small matter toOrmonde Delorme--but to go across the road for the man who had won heraway, was not. 

For Dam _had_ won her away from him, Delorme considered, inasmuch ashe had brought him to Monksmead, time after time, had seen him fallingin love with Lucille, had received his confidences, and spoken nowarning word. Had he said but "No poaching, Delorme, " nothing morewould have been necessary; he would have kept away thenceforth, andsmothered the flame ere it became a raging and consuming fire. No, deWarrenne had served him badly in not telling him plainly that therewas an understanding between him and his cousin, in letting him sinkmore and more deeply over head and ears in love, in letting him go onuntil he proposed to Lucille and learnt from her that while she likedhim better than any man in the world but one--she did not love him, and that, frankly, yes, she _did_ love somebody else, and it washopeless for him to hope.... 

He read the letter again:--

 "MY DEAR ORMONDE, "This is a begging letter, and I should loathe to write it, under the circumstances, to any man but such a one as you. For I am going to ask a great deal of you and to appeal to that nobleness of character for which I have always admired you and which made you poor Dam's hero from Lower School days at Wellingborough until you left Sandhurst (and, alas! quarrelled with him--or rather with his memory--about me). That was a sad blow to me, and I tell you again as I told you before, Dam had not the faintest notion that _I_ cared for _him_ and would not have told me that he cared for me had I not shown it. Your belief that he didn't trouble to warn you because he had me safe is utterly wrong, absurd, and unjust. 

 "When you did me the great honour and paid me the undeserved and tremendous compliment of asking me to marry you, and I told you that I could not, and _why_ I could not, I never dreamed that Dam could care for me in that way, and I knew that I should never marry any one at all unless he did. 

 "And on the same occasion, Ormonde, you begged me to promise that if ever you could serve me in any way, I would ask for your help. You were a dear romantic boy then, Ormonde, and I loved you in a different way, and cried all night that you and I could not be friends without thought of love, and I most solemnly promised that I would turn to you if I ever needed help that you could give. (Alas, I thought to myself then that nobody in the world could do anything for me that Dam could not do, and that I should never need help from others while he lived. )

 "I want your help, Ormonde, and I want it for Dam--and me. 

 "You have, of course, heard some garbled scandal about his being driven away from home and cut off from Sandhurst by grandfather. I need not ask if you have believed ill of him and I need not say he is absolutely innocent of any wrong or failure whatever. He is _not_ an effeminate coward, he is as brave as a lion. He is a splendid hero, Ormonde, and I want you to simply strangle and kill any man who says a word to the contrary. 

 "When he left home, he enlisted, and Haddon Berners saw him in uniform at Folkestone where he had gone from Canterbury (cricket week) to see Amelia Harringport's gang. Amelia whose sister is to be the Reverend Mrs. Canon Mellifle at Folkestone, you know, met the wretched Haddon being rushed along the front by a soldier and nearly died at the sight--she declares he was weeping!

 "Directly she told me I guessed at once that he had met Dam and either insulted or cut him, and that poor Dam, in his bitter humour and self-loathing had used his own presence as a punishment and had made the Haddock walk with him! Imagine the company of Damocles de Warrenne being anything but an ennobling condescension! Fancy Dam's society a horrible injury and disgrace! To a thing like Haddon Berners!

 "Well, I simply haunted Folkestone after that, and developed a love for Amelia Harringport and her brothers that surprised them--hypocrite that I am! (but I was punished when they talked slightingly of Dam and she sneered at the man whom she had shamelessly pursued when all was well with him. She 'admires' Haddon now. )

 "At last I met him on one of my week-end visits--on a Sunday evening it was--and I simply flew at him in the sight of all respectable, prayer-book-displaying, before-Church-parading, well-behaved Folkestone, and kissed him nearly to death.... And can you believe a woman could be such a _fool_, Ormonde--while carefully noting the '2 Q. G. ' on his shoulder-straps, I never thought to find out his _alias_--for of course he hides his identity, thinking as he does, poor darling boy, that he has brought eternal disgrace on an honoured name--a name that appears twice on the rolls of the V. C. Records. 

 "Ormonde, were it not that it would _increase_ his misery and agony of mind I would run away from Monksmead, take a room near the Queen's Greys barracks, and haunt the main gates until I saw him again. He should then tell me how to communicate with him, or I would hang about there till he did. I'd marry him 'off the strength' and live (till I am 'of age') by needlework if he would have me. But, of course, he'd _never_ understand that I'd be happier, and a better woman, in a Shorncliffe lodging, as a soldier's wife, than ever I shall be here in this dreary Monksmead--until he is restored and re-habilitated (is that the word? I mean--comes into his own as a brave and noble gentleman who never did a mean or cowardly action in his life). 

 "And he is _so_ thin and unhappy looking, Ormonde, and his poor hands are in such a state and his beautiful hair is all hacked about and done like a soldier's, all short except for a long piece brushed down his forehead and round to his cap--oh, dreadful ... And he has a scar on his face! No wonder Amelia never recognized him. Oh, _do_ help me, Ormonde. I _must_ find out how to address him. I dare not let them know there is a _D. De Warrenne_ in the regiment--and he'd never get it either--he's probably Smith or Jones or Robinson now. If some horrid Sergeant called out 'Trooper D. De Warrenne, ' when distributing letters, Dam would never answer to the name he thinks he has eternally disgraced, and disgrace it further by dragging it in the mire of the ranks. How _can_ people be such snobs? Isn't a good private a better man than a bad officer? Why should there be any 'taint' about serving your country in any capacity?

 "How _can_ I find him, Ormonde, unless you help me? I could pay a servant to hang about the barracks until he recognized Dam--but that would be horrible for the poor boy. He'd deny it and say the man was mad, I expect--and it would be most unpleasant and unfair to Dam to set some one to find out from his comrades what he calls himself. If he chooses to hide from what he thinks is the chance of further disgracing his people, and suffers what he does in order to remain hidden, shall _I_ be the one to do anything to show him up and cause him worse suffering--expose him to a servant?

 "How _can_ I get him a letter that shall not have his name on it? If I wrote to his Colonel or the Adjutant and enclosed a letter with just 'Dam' on it they'd not know for whom it was meant--and I dare not tell them his real name. 

 "Could you get a letter to him, Ormonde, without letting him know that you know he is a private soldier, and without letting a soul know his real name?

 "I do apologize for the length of this interminable letter, but if you only knew the _relief_ it is to me to be doing something that may help him, and to be talking, or rather writing about him, you would forgive me. 

 "His name must not be mentioned here. Think of it!

 "Oh, if it only would not make him _more_ unhappy, I would go to him this minute, and refuse ever to leave him again. 

 "Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde? I don't care whether it does or not, nor whether it _is_ or not. I love him, and he loves me. I am his _friend_. Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to marry me? Am I a terribly abandoned female? I told Auntie Yvette just what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not committed suicide (I believe she _worshipped_ father)--she seemed mortally shocked at me for behaving so. I am not a bit ashamed though. Dam is more important than good form, and I had to show him in the strongest possible way that he was dearer to me than ever. If it _was_ 'behaving like a servant-girl'--all honour to servant-girls, I think ... Considering the circumstances. You should have seen his face before he caught sight of me. Yes--_and_ after, too. Though really I think he suffered more from my kissing him--in uniform, in the street--than if I had cut him. It would be only for the minute though ... It _must_ comfort him _now_, and always, to think that I love him so (since he loves _me_--and always has done). But what I must know before I can sleep peacefully again is the name by which he goes in the '2 Q. G's. , ' so that I can write and comfort him regularly, send him things, and make him buy himself out when he sees he has been foolish and wicked in supposing that he has publicly disgraced himself and his name and us. And I'm going to make Grandfather's life a misery, and go about skinny and ragged and weeping, and say: '_This_ is how you treat the daughter of your dead friend, you wicked, cruel, unjust old man, ' until he relents and sends for Dam and gets him into the Army properly.... But I am afraid Dam will think it his silly duty to flee from me and all my works, and hide himself where the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley are unknown and cannot be disgraced. 

 "I rely on you, Ormonde, "Your ashamed grateful friend, "LUCILLE GAVESTONE. "

Second Lieutenant Delorme rang the bell. 

"Bradshaw, " he said, as his soldier-servant appeared. "And get me atelegraph form. "

"Yussir, " said Private Billings, and marched to the Mess ante-roompurposefully, with hope in his heart that Mr. Delorme 'ad nothink lessthan a 'alf dollar for the telegram and would forgit to arx for thechainge, as was his occasional praiseworthy procedure. 

Mr. Delorme, alas, proved to have a mean and vulgar shilling, thewhich he handed to Private Billings with a form containing themessage:--

"Can do. So cheer up. Writing his adjutant, pal of mine. Coming overSaturday if get leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Damall right. Will blow over. Thanks for letting me help. "

"'Fraid they don' give no tick at the Telegraft Orfis, Sir, " observedPrivate Billings, who, as quondam "trained observer" of his troop, hadnoted the length of the telegram and the shortness of the allowancetherefor. 

"What the deuce... ?"

"This is more like a 'alf-dollar job, Sir, " he groaned, waving thepaper, "wot wiv' the haddress an' all. "

"Oh--er--yes, bit thick for a bob, perhaps; here's half a sov.... "

"_That's_ more like '_'Eres to yer_, ' Mr. D----" remarked the goodman--outside the door. "And don't yer werry about trifles o' chainge. Be a gent!"

 * * * * *

Lucille read and re-read the telegram in many ways. 

"Can do so. Cheer up. Writing his adjutant. Pal of mine coming overSaturday. If get leave going Shorncliffe if necessary leave due Dam. All right will blow over thanks. " No, _that_ wouldn't do. 

(What a pity people _would_ not remember when writing telegrams thatthe stops and capitals they put are ignored by the operators. )

At last, the wish being father to the thought, she decided it to be"Can do" (she knew that to be a navy expression). "So cheer up. Writing. His adjutant a pal of mine. Coming over Saturday if I getleave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam all right. Willblow over. Thanks for letting me help. " Which was not far wrong. 

Dear old Ormonde! She knew he would not fail her--although he had beenterribly cut up by her rejection of his suit and by his belief thatDam had let him haunt her in the knowledge that she was his ownprivate property, secured to him. 

 * * * * *

Having dispatched his telegram and interviewed his Adjutant, Captain, and Colonel, Mr. Delorme sat him down and wrote to Lieutenant theHonourable Reginald Montague Despencer, Adjutant of the Queen'sGreys:--

 "MY DEAR MONTY, "At the Rag. The other day, respectfully dining with my respected parent, I encountered, respectfully dining with his respected parent, your embryo Strawberry Leaf, old 'Punch Peerson'. (Do you remember his standing on his head on the engine at Blackwater Station when he was too 'merry' to be able to stand steady on his feet?) I learnt that he is still with you and I want him to do something for me. He'll be serious about it if _you_ speak to him about it--and I am writing to him direct. I'm going to send you a letter (under my cover), and on it will be one word 'Dam' (on the envelope, of course). I want you to give this to Punch and order him to show it privately to the _gentlemen-rankers_ of the corps till one says he recognizes the force of the word (pretty forceful, too, what!) and the writing. To this chap he is to give it. Be good to your poor 'rankers, ' Monty, I know one damned hard case among them. No fault of _his_, poor chap. I could say a lot--surprise you--but I mustn't. It's awfully good of you, old chap. I know you'll see it through. It concerns as fine a gentleman as ever stepped and _the_ finest woman!

 "Ever thine, "O. DELORME. "

"Look here, my lambs--or rather, Black Sheep, " quoth Trooper PunchPeerson one tea-time to Troopers Bear, Little, Goate, Nemo, Burke, Jones, and Matthewson, "I suppose none of you answers to the name of'_Dam_'?"

No man answered, and Trooper Peerson looked at the face of no man, norany one at any other. 

"No. I thought not. Well, I have a letter addressed in thatobjurgatory term, and I am going to place it beneath my pillow beforeI go out to-night. If it is there when I come in I'll destroy itunopened. 'Nuff said, ' as the lady remarked when she put the mop inher husband's mouth. Origin of the phrase 'don't chew the mop, ' Ishould think, " and he babbled on, having let his unfortunate friendsknow that for one of them he had a letter which might be received bythe addressed without the least loss of his anonymity. 

Dam's heart beat hard and seemed to swell to bursting. He feltsuffocated. 

"Quaint superscription, " he managed to observe. "How did you come byit?" and then wished he had not spoken.... Who but the recipient couldbe interested in its method of delivery? If anyone suspected him ofbeing "Dam" would they not at once connect him with the notoriousDamocles de Warrenne, ex-Sandhurst cadet, proclaimed coward andwretched neurotic decadent before the pained, disgusted eyes of hiscounty, kicked out by his guardian ... A disgrace to two honourednames. ... "The Adjer handed it over. Thought _I_ was the biggest Damnhere, I suppose, " Trooper Peerson replied without looking up from hisplate. "Practical silly joke I should think. No one here with such al_oath_some, name as _Dam_, of course, " but Trooper Punch Peerson hadhis philosophic "doots". He, like others of that set, had heard of abig chap who was a marvel at Sandhurst with the gloves, sword, horse, and other things, and who had suddenly and marvellously disappearedinto thin air leaving no trace behind him, after some public scandalor other.... But that was no concern of Trooper Punch Peerson, gentleman.... 

With a wary eye on Peerson, Dam lay on his bed, affecting to read astale and dirty news-sheet. He saw him slip something beneath hispillow and swagger out of the barrack-room. Anon no member of thelittle band of gentleman-rankers was left. Later, the room was empty, save for a heavily snoring drunkard and a busy polisher who, at theshelf-table at the far end of the room, laboured on his jack-boots, hissing the while, like a groom with a dandy-brush. 

Going to Peerson's bed, Dam snatched the letter, returned to his own, and flung himself down again--his heart pumping as though he had justfinished a mile race. _Lucille had got a letter to him somehow_. Lucille was not going to drop him yet--in spite of having seen him ared-handed, crop-haired, "quiff"-wearing, coarse-looking soldier.... Was there another woman in the world like Lucille? Would any othergirl have so risen superior to her breeding, and the teachings ofMiss Smellie, as to do what she thought right, regardless of publicscandal... ? But he must not give her the opportunity of being seentalking to a soldier again--much less kissing one. Not that she wouldwant to kiss him again like that. That was the kiss of welcome, ofencouragement, of proof that she was unchanged to him--her first sightof him after the _débâcle_. It was the unchecked impulse of a nobleheart--and the action showed that Miss Smellie had been unable to doit much harm with her miserable artificialities and stiflings of allthat is natural and human and right.... Should he read the letter atonce or treasure it up and keep it as a treat in store? He would holdit in his hand unopened and imagine its contents. He would spin outthe glorious pleasure of possession of an unopened letter fromLucille. He could, of course, read it hundreds of times--but he wouldthen soon know it by heart, and although its charm and value would beno less, it would merge with his other memories and become a memoryitself. He did not want it to become a memory too soon. 

The longer it remained an anticipation, the more distant the day whenit became a memory.... 

With a groan of "Oh, my brain's softening and I'm becoming asentimentalist, " he opened the letter and read Lucille's loving, cheering--yet agonizing, maddening--words:--

 "MY OWN DARLING DAM, "If this letter reaches you safely you are to sit down at once and write to me to tell me how to address you by post in the ordinary way. If you don't I shall come and haunt the entrance to the Lines and waylay you. People will think I am a poor soul whom you have married and deserted, or whom you won't marry. _I'll_ show up your wicked cruelty to a poor girl! How would you like your comrades to say 'Look out, Bill, your pore wife's 'anging about the gates' and to have to lie low--and send out scouts to see if the coast was clear later on? Don't you go playing fast and loose with _me_, master Dam, winning my young affections, making love to me, kissing me--and then refusing to marry me after it all! I don't want to be too hard on you (and I am reasonable enough to admit that one-and-two a day puts things on a smaller scale than I have been accustomed to in the home of my fathers--or rather uncles, or perhaps uncles-in-law), and like the kind Tailor whom the Haddock advertises (and like the unkind Judge before whom he'll some day come for something) I will 'give you time'. But it's only a respite, Mr. De Warrenne. You are not going to trifle with my young feelings and escape altogether. I have my eye on you--and if I respect your one-and-twopence a day _now_, it is on the clear understanding that you share my Little All on the day I come of age. I will trust you once more, although you _have_ treated me so--bolting and hiding from your confiding fiancée. 

 "So write and tell me what you call yourself, so that I can write to you regularly and satisfy myself that you are not escaping me again. How _could_ you treat a poor trusting female so--and then when she had found you again, and was showing her delight and begging to be married and settled in life--to rush away from her, leaving her and her modest matrimonial proposals scorned and rejected! For shame, Sir! I've a good mind to come and complain to your Colonel and ask him to make you keep your solemn promises and marry me.... 

 "Now look here, darling, nonsense aside--I solemnly swear that if you don't buy yourself out of the army on the day I come of age (or before, if you will, and can) I will really come and make you marry me and I will live with you as a soldier's wife. If you persist in your wrong-headed notion of being a 'disgrace' (_you_!) then we'll just adopt the army as a career, and we'll go through all the phases till you get a Commission. I hope you won't take this course--but if you do, you'll be a second Hector Macdonald and retire as Lieutenant-General Sir Damocles de Warrenne (K. C. B. , K. C. M. G. , K. C. S. I. , D. S. O. , and, of course, V. C. ), having confessed to an _alias_. It will be a long time before we should be in really congenial society, that way, darling, but I'm sure I should enjoy every hour of it with you, so long as I felt I was a comfort and happiness to you. And when you got your Commission I should not be a social drag upon you as sometimes happens. Nor before it should I be a nuisance and hindrance to you and make you wish you were 'shut of the curse of a soldier'. I could 'rough it' as well as you and, besides, there would _be_ no 'roughing it' where you were, for me. It is _here_ that I am 'roughing it, ' sitting impotent and wondering what is happening to you, and whether that terrible illness ever seizes you, and whether you are properly looked after when it does. 

 "Now, just realize, dearest Dam--I said I would wait twenty years for you, if necessary. I would and I will, but don't make me do it, darling. Realize how happy I should be if I could only come and sew and cook and scrub and work for you. Can you understand that life is only measurable in terms of happiness and that _my_ happiness can only be where _you, _ are? If you weren't liable to these seizures I could bear to wait, but as it is, I can't. I beg and beseech you not to make me wait till I am of age, Dam. There's no telling what may happen to you and I just can't bear it. _I'm coming_, if I don't hear from you, and I can easily do something to compel you to marry me, if I come. You are _not_ going to bear this alone, darling, so don't imagine it. We're not going to keep separate shops after all these years, just because you're ill with a trouble of some kind that fools can't understand. 

 "Now write to me at once and put me in a position to write to you in the ordinary way--or look out for me! I'm all ready to run away, all sorts of useful things packed--ready to come and be a soldier's girl. 

 "You know that I _do_ what I think I'll do--you spoke of my 'steel-straight directness and sweet brave will' in the poem you were making about me, you poor funny old boy, when you vanished, and which I found in your room when I went there to cry, (Oh, _how_ I cried when I found your odds and ends of verse about me there--I really did think my heart was 'broken' in actual fact. ) Don't make me suffer any more, darling. I'm sure your Colonel will be sweet about it and give us a nice little house all to ourselves, now he has seen what a splendid soldier you are. If you stick to your folly about 'disgrace' I need not tell him our names and Grumper couldn't take me away from you, even if he ever found out where we were. 

 "I could go on writing all night, darling, but I'll only just say again _I am going to marry you and take care of you, Dam, in the army or out of it. _

 "Your fiancee and friend, "LUCILLE GAVESTONE. "

Dam groaned aloud. 

"Four o' rum 'ot, is wot _you_ want, mate, for that, " said theindustrious self-improver at the shelf-table. "Got a chill on yerstummick on sentry-go in the fog an' rine las' night.... I'd give a'ogs'ead to see the bloke who wrote in the bloomin' Reggilashuns _'normust bloomin' sentries stand in their blasted sentry-boxes in good oreven in moderate-weather'_ a doin' of it 'isself in 'is bloomin''moderate weather' with water a runnin' down 'is back, an' 'is feetfroze into a puddle, an' the fog a chokin' of 'im, an' 'is blightedcarbine feelin' like a yard o' bad ice--an' then find the bloomin'winder above 'is bed been opened by some kind bloke an' 'is bed ablasted swamp... Yus--you 'ave four o' rum 'ot and you'll feel likethe bloomin' 'Ouse o' Lords. Then 'ave a Livin'stone Rouser. " "Oh, shut up, " said Dam, cursing the Bathos of Things and returning to thebeginning of Lucille's letter. 

 * * * * *

In his somewhat incoherent reply, Dam assured Lucille that he was inthe rudest health and spirits, and the particular pet of his Colonelwho inquired after his health almost daily with tender solicitude;that he had exaggerated his feeling on That Evening when he had kissedLucille as a lover, and begged forgiveness; that marriage wouldseriously hamper a most promising military career; that he had had norecurrence of the "fit" (a mere touch of sun); that it would be unkindand unfair of Lucille to bring scandal and disgrace upon a risingyoung soldier by hanging about the Lines and making inquiries abouthim with a view to forcing him into marriage, making him keep to abargain made in a rash, unguarded moment of sentimentality; that, inany case, soldiers could not marry until they had a certain income andstatus, and, if they did so, it was no marriage and they were sent tojail; that his worst enemy would not do anything to drag him out onceagain into the light of publicity, and disgrace his family further, now that he had effectually disappeared and was being forgotten; andthat he announced that he was known as Trooper Matthewson (E Troop, The Queen's Greys, Cavalry Lines, Shorncliffe) to prevent Lucille fromkeeping her most unladylike promise of persecuting him. 

Lucille's next letter was shorter than the first. 

 "MY DARLING DAM, "Don't be such a _priceless_ Ass. Come off it. 

 "Your own

 "LUCILLE. 

 "P. S. --Write to me properly at once--or expect me on Monday. "

He obeyed, poured out his whole heart in love and thanks andblessings, and persuaded her that the one thing that could increasehis misery would be her presence, and swore that he would strain everynerve to appear before her at the earliest possible moment a free manwith redeemed name--provided he could persuade himself he was not _acongenital lunatic, an epileptic, a decadent--could cure himself ofhis mental disease.... _

CHAPTER XI. 

MORE MYRMIDONS. 

The truly busy man cannot be actively and consciously unhappy. Thetruly miserable and despondent person is never continuously andactively employed. Fits of deep depression there may be for the workerwhen work is impossible, but, unless there be mental and physicalillness, sleep is the other anaesthetic, refuge--and reward. 

The Wise thank God for Work and for Sleep--and pay large premia ofthe former as Insurance in the latter. 

To Damocles de Warrenne--to whom the name "Trooper Matthewson" nowseemed the only one he had ever had--the craved necessity of life andsanity was _work_, occupation, mental and physical labour. He wouldhave blessed the man who sentenced him to commence the digging of atrench ten miles long and a yard deep for morning and evening labour, and to take over all the accounts of each squadron, for employment inthe heat of the day. There was no man in the regiment soindefatigable, so energetic, so persevering, so insatiable of"fatigues, " so willing and anxious to do other people's duty as wellas his own, so restless, so untiring as Trooper Matthewson of E Troop. For Damocles de Warrenne was in the Land of the Serpent and lived infear. He lived in fear and feared to live; he thought of Fear andfeared to think. He turned to work as, but for the memory of Lucille, he would have turned to drink: he laboured to earn deep dreamlesssleep and he dreaded sleep. Awake, he could drug himself with work;asleep, he was the prey--the bound, gagged helpless, abject prey--ofthe Snake. The greediest glutton for work in the best working regimentin the world was Trooper Matthewson--but for him was no promotion. Hewas, alas, "unreliable"--apt to be "drunk and disorderly, " drunk tothe point of "seeing snakes" and becoming a weeping, screaminglunatic--a disgusting spectacle. And, when brought up for sentence, would solemnly assure the Colonel that he was _a total abstainer_, andstick to it when "told-off" for adding impudent lying to shamefulindulgence and sickening behaviour. No promotion for that type ofwaster while Colonel the Earl of A---- commanded the Queen's Greys, nor while Captain Daunt commanded the squadron the trooperoccasionally disgraced. 

But he had his points, mark you, and it was a thousand pities that sofine a soldier was undeniably subject to attacks of _delirium tremens_and unmistakeably a secret drinker who might at any time have aviolent outburst, finishing in screams, sobs, and tears. A _most_remarkable case! Who ever heard of a magnificent athlete--regimentalchampion boxer and swordsman, admittedly as fine and bold a horsemanand horse-master as the Rough-Riding Sergeant-Major or theRiding-Master himself--being a sufficiently industrious secret-drinkerto get "goes" of "d. T. , " to drink till he behaved like someGod-and-man-forsaken wretch that lives on cheap gin in a chronic stateof alcoholism. He had his points, and if the Brigadier had everhappened to say to the Colonel: "Send me your smartest, mostintelligent, and keenest man to gallop for me at the manoeuvres, " orthe Inspector of Army Gymnasia had asked for the regiment's finestspecimen, or if one representative private soldier had to be sentsomewhere to uphold the credit and honour of the Queen's Greys, undoubtedly Trooper Matthewson would have been chosen. 

What a splendid squadron-sergeant major, regimental sergeant-major, yea, what a fine officer he would have made, had he been reliable. Butthere, you can't have an officer, nor a non-com. , either, who liesshrieking and blubbering on the floor _coram publico_, and screams toGod and man to save him from the snakes that exist only in his owndrink-deranged mind. For of course it can only be Drink that produces"Snakes"! Yes, it is only through the ghastly alcohol-tinted glassesthat you can "see snakes"--any fool knows _that_. 

And the fools of the Queen's Greys knew it, and hoped to God thatMatthewson would "keep off it" till after the Divisional BoxingTournament and Assault-at-Arms, for, if he did, the Queen's Greyswould certainly have the Best Man-at-Arms in the Division and have amighty good shot at having the Heavy-Weight All-India Champion, sinceMatthewson had challenged the Holder and held an absolutely unbrokenrecord of victories in the various regimental and inter-regimentalboxing tournaments in which he had taken part since joining theregiment. And he had been "up against some useful lads" as CaptainChevalier, the president and Maecenas of the Queen's Greys'boxing-club, expressed it. Yes, Matthewson had his points and theman who brought the Regiment the kudos of having best Man-at-Arms andHeavy-Weight Champion of India would be forgiven a lot. 

And Damocles de Warrenne blessed the Divisional Boxing Tournament, Assault-at-Arms, and, particularly, the All-India Heavy-WeightChampionship. 

Occupation, labour, anodyne.... Work and deep Sleep. Fighting to keepthe Snake at bay. No, fighting to get away from it--there was nokeeping it at bay--nothing but shrieking collapse when It came.... 

From parade ground to gymnasium, from gymnasium to swimming-bath, fromswimming-bath to running-track, from running-track to boxing-ring, from boxing-ring to gymnasium again. Work, occupation, forgetfulness. Forget the Snake for a little while--even though it is surely lurkingnear--waiting, waiting, waiting; nay, even beneath his very foot and_moving_.... 

Well, a man can struggle with himself until the Thing actually appearsin the concrete, and he goes mad--but Night! Oh, God grant deep sleepat night--or wide wakefulness _and a light_. Neither Nightmare norwakefulness _in the dark_, oh, Merciful God. 

Yes, things were getting worse. _He was going mad. MAD_. Desert--andget out of India somehow?

Never! No gentleman "deserts" anything or anybody. 

Suicide--and face God unafraid and unashamed?

Never! The worst and meanest form of "deserting". 

No. Stick it. And live to work--work to live. And strive and striveand strive to obliterate the image of Lucille--that sorrow's crown ofsorrow. 

And so Trooper Matthewson's course of training was a severe one and heappeared to fear rest and relaxation as some people fear work andemployment. 

His favourite occupation was to get the ten best boxers of theregiment to jointly engage in a ten-round contest with him, one roundeach. He would frequently finish fresher than the tenth man. Coming ofnotedly powerful stock on both sides, and having been physically_educated_ from babyhood, Dam, with clean living and constanttraining, was a very uncommon specimen. There may have been one or twoother men in the regiment as well developed, or nearly so; but whenpoise, rapidity, and skill were taken into account there was no onenear him. Captain Chevalier said he was infinitely the quickestheavy-weight boxer he had ever seen--and Captain Chevalier was apillar of the National Sporting Club and always knew the currentprofessionals personally when he was in England. In fact, with theenormous strength of the best heavy-weight, Dam combined the lightningrapidity and mobility of the best feather-weight. 

His own doubt as to the result of his contest with the heavy-weightChampion of India arose from the fact that the latter was a person ofmuch lower nervous development, a creature far less sensitive toshock, a denser and more elementary organism altogether, and possessedof a far thicker skull, shorter jaw, and thicker neck. Dam summed himup thus with no sense of contemptuous superiority, but with a plainrecognition of the facts that the Champion was a fighting machine, adull, foreheadless, brutal gladiator who owed his championship verylargely to the fact that he was barely sensible to pain, andimpervious to padded blows. It was said that he had never been knockedout in all his boxing-career, that the kick of a horse on his chinwould not knock him out, that his head was solid bone, and that theshortness of his jaw and thickness of his neck absolutely preventedsufficient leverage between the point of the jaw and the spinal cordfor the administration of the shock to the _medulla oblongata_ thatcauses the necessary ten-seconds' unconsciousness of the "knock-out". 

He was known as the Gorilla by reason of his long arms, incrediblestrength, beauty, and pleasing habits, and he bore the reputation of amerciless and unchivalrous opponent and one who needed the strictestand most experienced refereeing. It would be a real terrific fight, and that was the main thing to Dam, though he would do his very utmostto win, for the credit of the Queen's Greys, and would leave no stoneunturned to that end. He regretted that he could not get leave and goto Pultanpur to see the Champion box, and learn something of his styleand methods when easily defending his title in the Pultanpurtournament. And when the Tournament and Assault-at-Arms were over hemust find something else to occupy him by day and tire him beforenight. Meanwhile life was bearable, with the fight to come--except forsentry-go work. That was awful, unspeakable, and each time was worsethan the last. Sitting up all night in the guard-room under the biglamp, and perhaps with some other wakeful wretch to talk to, wasnothing. That was well enough--but to be on a lonely post on a darknight ... Well--he couldn't do it much longer. 

Darkness and the Snake that was always coming and never came! To prowlround and round some magazine, store, or boundary-stone with hiscarbine at the "support, " or to tramp up and down by the horse-lines, armed only with his cutting-whip; to stand in a sentry-box while therain fell in sheets and there was no telling what the next flash oflightning might reveal--that was what would send him to a lunatic'spadded cell. 

To see the Snake by day would give him a cruel, terrible fit--but tobe aware of it in the dark would be final--and fatal to his reason(which was none too firmly enthroned). No, he had the dreadful feelingthat his reason was none too solidly based and fixed. He had horribleexperiences, apart from the snake-nightmares, nowadays. One night whenhe awoke and lay staring up at his mosquito-curtain in the blessedlight of the big room-lamp (always provided in India on account ofrifle thieves) he had suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of fear. Hesat up. God!--he was in a marble box! These white walls and roof werenot mosquito-netting, they were solid marble! He was in a tomb. He wasburied alive. The air was growing foul. His screams would beabsolutely inaudible. He screamed, and struck wildly at the cold cruelmarble, and found it was soft, yielding netting after all. But it wasa worse horror to find that he had thought it marble than if he hadfound it to be marble. He sprang from his cot. 

"I am going mad, " he cried. 

"Goin'?... _Gorn_, more like, " observed the disrobing room-corporal. "Why donchew keep orf the booze, Maffewson? You silly gapin' goat. Gitinter bed and shut yer 'ead--or I'll get yew a night in clink, melad--and wiv'out a light, see?"

Corporal Prag knew his victim's little weakness and grinnedmaliciously as Dam sprang into bed without a word. 

The Stone Jug without a gleam of light! Could a man choke himself withhis own fingers if the worst came to the worst? The Digger and Stygiandarkness--now--_when he was going mad_! Men could not be so cruel.... But they'd say he was drunk. He would lie still and cling with all hisstrength and heart and soul to sanity. He would think of That Eveningwith Lucille--and of her kisses. He would recite the Odes of Horace, the Aeneid, the Odyssey as far as he could remember them, and thenfall back on Shakespeare and other English poets. Probably he knew alot more Greek and Latin poetry (little as it was) than he did ofEnglish.... 

Corporal Prag improved the occasion as he unlaced his boots. "Bloomin'biby! Afraid o' the dark! See wot boozin' brings yer to. Look at yer!An' look at _me_. Non-c'misshn'd orficer in free an' a 'arf years fromj'inin'. Never tasted alc'ol in me life, an' if any man offud me aglarse, d'ye know what I'd _dew_?"

"No, Corporal, I'd like to hear, " replied Dam. (Must keep the animaltalking as long as possible for the sake of human company. He'd go madat once, perhaps, when the Corporal went to bed. )

"I'd frow it strite in 'is faice, I would, " announced the virtuousyouth. A big boot flopped heavily on the floor. 

"I daresay you come of good old teetotal stock, " observed Dam, to makeconversation. Perhaps the fellow would pause in his assault upon theother boot and reply--so lengthening out the precious minutes ofdiversion. Every minute was a minute nearer dawn.... 

"_Do_ yer? Well, you're bloomin' well wrong, Maffewson, me lad. Myfarver 'ad a bout every Saturday arternoon and kep' it up all day aSund'y, 'e did--an' in the werry las' bout 'e ever 'ad 'e bashed 'isole woman's 'ead in wiv' a bottle. "

"And was hanged?" inquired Dam politely and innocently, but mosttactlessly. 

"Mind yer own b---- business, " roared Corporal Prag. "Other people'sfarvers wasn't gallows-birds if yourn was. 'Ow'd you look if I comeand punched you on the nose, eh? Wot 'ud you do if I come an' setabaht yer, eh?"

"Break your neck, " replied Dam tersely. 

"Ho, yus. _And_ wot 'ud yew say when I calls the guard and they frowsyou into clink? Without no light, Trooper Maffewson!"

Dam shuddered. 

Corporal Prag yet further improved the occasion, earning Dam'sheartfelt blessing. 

"Don't you fergit it, Trooper Maffewson. I'm yore sooperier orficer. You _may_ be better'n me in the Ring, praps, or with the sword (Damcould have killed him in five minutes, with or without weapons), butif I 'olds up my little finger _you_ comes to 'eel--or other'ow yougoes ter clink. 'Ung indeed! You look after yer own farver an' don'pass remarks on yer betters. Why! You boozin' waster, I shall beRegimental Sargen' Majer when you're a bloomin' discharged private wivan 'undred '_drunks_' in red on yer Defaulter's Sheet. RegimentalSarjen' Majer! I shall be an Orficer more like, and walk acrost thecrossin' wot _you're_ asweepin', to me Club in bloomin' wellPickerdilly! Yus. This is the days o' _? Demockerycy_, me lad. 'GoodLloyd George's golden days' as they sing--and steady fellers like meis goin' to ave C'missh'ns--an' don' you fergit it! Farver 'ungindeed!"

"I'm awf'ly sorry, Corporal, really, " apologized Dam. "I didn'tthink.... "

"No, me lad, " returned the unmollified superior, as he stooped to theother boot, "if you was to think more an' booze less you'd dobetter.... 'Ow an' where you gets 'old of it, beats me. I've seed youin delirium trimmings but I ain't never seed you drinkin' nor yetsmelt it on yer. You're a cunnin' 'ound in yer way. One o' thembeastly secret-drinkin' swine wots never suspected till they fallsdown 'owlin' blue 'orrors an' seem' pink toadses. Leastways it'ssnakes _you_ sees. See 'em oncte too orfen, you will.... See 'em onp'rade one day in front o' the Colonel. Fall orf yer long-face an gettrampled--an' serve yer glad.... An' now shut yer silly 'ed an' don'tchew the mop so much. Let me get some sleep. _I_ 'as respontsibillaties_I_ do.... "

A crossing outside a Club! More likely a padded cell in a troopshipand hospital until an asylum claimed him. 

In the finals, "Sword versus Sword Dismounted, " Dam had a foemanworthy of his steel. 

A glorious chilly morning, sunrise on a wide high open _maidan_, rowsof tents for the spectators at the great evening final, and crowds ofofficers and men in uniform or gymnasium kit. On a group of chairs satthe Divisional General, his Colonel on the Staff, and Aide-de-Camp;the Brigadier-General, his Brigade-Major, and a few ladies, wives ofregimental colonels, officers, and leading Civilians. 

Semi-finals of Tent-pegging, Sword v. Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Tug-of-War, Fencing, and other officers' and men's events had been, orwere being, contested. 

The finals of the British Troops' Sword _v. _ Sword Dismounted, wasbeing reserved for the last, as of supreme interest to the expertspresent, but not sufficiently spectacular to be kept for the eveningfinal "show, " when the whole of Society would assemble to be thrilledby the final Jumping, Driving, Tent-pegging, Sword _v. _ Sword Mounted, Bayonet-fighting, Sword _v. _ Lance, Tug-of-War, and other events forBritish and Indian officers and men of all arms. 

It was rumoured that there was a Sergeant of Hussars who would giveTrooper Matthewson a warm time with the sabre. As the crowd ofcompetitors and spectators gathered round the sabres-ring, and chairswere carried up for the Generals, ladies, and staff, to witness thelast and most exciting contest of the morning's meeting, aCorporal-official of the Assault-at-Arms Executive Committee calledaloud, "Sergeant O'Malley, 14th Hussars, get ready, " and anotherfastened a red band to the Sergeant's arm as he stepped forward, cladin leather jacket and leg-guards and carrying the heavyiron-and-leather head-guard necessary in sabre combats, and theblunt-edged, blunt-pointed sabre. 

Dam approached him. 

"Don't let my point rest on your hilt, Sergeant, " he said. 

"What's the game?" inquired the surprised and suspicious Sergeant. 

"My little trick. I thrust rather than cut, you know, " said Dam. 

"I'll watch it, me lad, " returned Sergeant O'Malley, wondering whetherDam were fool or knave. 

"Trooper Matthewson, get ready, " called the Corporal, and Dam steppedinto the ring, saluted, and faced the Sergeant. 

A brief direction and caution, the usual preliminary, and the word--

"On guard--_Play_" and Dam was parrying a series of the quickest cutshe had ever met. The Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue ofa--_Snake_. Yes--of a _Snake_! and even as Dam's hand dropped limp andnerveless, the Sergeant's sword fell with a dull heavy thud on hishead-guard. The stroke would have split Dam's head right neatly, inactual fighting. 

"Stop, " shouted the referee. "Point to Red. "

"On guard--_Play_"

But if the Sergeant's sword flickered like the tongue of a snake--whythen Dam must be fighting the Snake. _Fighting the Snake_ and inanother second the referee again cried "Stop!" And added, "Don't fightsavage, White, or I'll disqualify you". 

"I'm awf'ly sorry, " said Dam, "I thought I was fighting the Sn----"

"Hold your tongue, and don't argue, " replied the referee sternly. 

"On Guard--_Play_. "

Ere the Sergeant could move his sword from its upward-inclinedposition Dam's blade dropped to its hilt, shot in over it, and as theSergeant raised his forearm in guard, flashed beneath it and bent onhis breast. 

"Stop, " cried the referee. "Point to White. Double"--two marks beingthen awarded for the thrust hit, and one for the cut. 

"On guard--_Play_. "

Absolutely the same thing happened again within the next half-second, and Dam had won the British Troops' Sword _v_. Sword Dismounted, inaddition to being in for the finals in Tent-pegging, Sword _v_. SwordMounted, Jumping (Individual and By Sections), Sword _v_. Lance, andTug-of-War. 

"Now jest keep orf it, Matthewson, and sweep the bloomin' board, "urged Troop-Sergeant-Major Scoles as Dam removed his fencing-jacket, preparatory to returning to barracks. "You be Best Man-at-arms in theDivision and win everythink that's open to British Troops Mounted, andgit the 'Eavy-Weight Championship from the Gorilla--an' there'll besome talk about promotion for yer, me lad. "

"Thank you, Sergeant, " replied Dam. "I am a total abstainer. "

"Yah! _Chuck_ it, " observed the Sergeant-Major. 

_Of no interest to Women nor modern civilized Men_. 

The long-anticipated hour had struck, the great moment had arrived, and (literally) thousands of British soldiers sat in a state ofexpectant thrill and excited interest, awaiting the appearance of theGorilla (Corporal Dowdall of the 111th Battery, Royal GarrisonArtillery--fourteen stone twelve) and Trooper Matthewson (Queen'sGreys--fourteen stone) who were to fight for the Elliott Belt, theMotipur Cup, and the Heavy-Weight Championship of India. 

The Boxing Tournament had lasted for a week and had been a hugesuccess. Now came the _pičce de resistance, the_ fight of the Meeting, the event for which special trains had brought hundreds of civiliansand soldiers from neighbouring and distant cantonments. Bombay herselfsent a crowded train-load, and it was said that a, by no means small, contingent had come from Madras. Certainly more than one sportingpatron of the Great Sport, the Noble Art, the Manly Game, hadtravelled from far Calcutta. So well-established was the fame of thegreat Gorilla, and so widely published the rumour that the Queen'sGreys had a prodigy who'd lower his flag in ten rounds--or less. 

A great square of the grassy plain above Motipur had been enclosed bya high canvas wall, and around a twenty-four foot raised "ring" (whichwas square) seating accommodation for four thousand spectators hadbeen provided. The front rows consisted of arm-chairs, sofas, anddrawing-room settees (from the wonderful stock of Mr. DadabhoyPochajee Furniturewallah of the Sudder Bazaar) for the officers andleading civilians of Motipur, and such other visitors as chose topurchase the highly priced reserved-seat tickets. 

Not only was every seat in the vast enclosure occupied, but everysquare inch of standing-room, by the time the combatants entered thearena. 

A few dark faces were to be seen (Native Officers of the pultans[23]and rissal[24] of the Motipur Brigade), and the idea occurred to nota few that it was a pity the proceedings could not be witnessed byevery Indian in India. It would do them good in more ways than one. 

Although a large number of the enormously preponderating militaryspectators were in the khaki kit so admirable for work (and sodepressing, unswanksome and anti-enlistment for play, or rather forwalking-out and leisure), the experienced eye could see that almostevery corps in India furnished contingents to the gathering. Lancers, dragoons, hussars, artillery, riflemen, Highlanders, supply andtransport, infantry of a score of regiments, and, rare sight away fromthe Ports, a small party of Man-o'-War's-men in white duck, bluecollars, and straw hats (huge, solemn-faced men who jested withgrimmest seriousness of mien and insulted each other outrageously). Officers in scarlet, in dark blue, in black and cherry colour, infawn and cherry colour, in pale blue and silver, in almost everycombination of colours, showed that the commissioned ranks of theBritish and Indian Services were well represented, horse, foot, guns, engineers, doctors, and veterinary surgeons--every rank and everybranch. On two sides of the roped ring, with its padded posts, sat thejudges, boxing Captains both, who had won distinction at Aldershot andin many a local tournament. On another side sat the referee, _ex_-Public-Schools Champion, Aldershot Light-Weight Champion, and, admittedly, the best boxer of his weight among the officers of theBritish Army. Beside him sat the time-keeper. Overhead a circle oflarge incandescent lamps made the scene as bright as day. 

"Well, d'you take it?" asked Seaman Jones of Seaman Smith. "Betterstrike while the grog's 'ot. A double-prick o' baccy and a gallon o'four-'arf, evens, on the Griller. I ain't never 'eard o' the Grillertill we come 'ere, and I never 'eard o' t'other bloke neether--but I'olds by the Griller, cos of 'is name and I backs me fancy afore Isees 'em. --Loser to 'elp the winner with the gallon. "

"Done, Bill, " replied the challenged promptly, on hearing the lastcondition. (He could drink as fast as Bill if he lost, and he couldborrer on the baccy till it was wore out. ) "Got that bloomin''igh-falutin' lar-de-dar giddy baccy-pouch and yaller baccy youinwested in at Bombay?" he asked. "Yus, 'Enery, " replied William, diving deeply for it. 

"Then push it 'ere, an' likewise them bloomin' 'igh-falutin'lar-de-dar giddy fag-papers you fumble wiv'. Blimey! ain't a honestclay good enough for yer now? I knows wots the matter wiv _you_, BillyJones! You've got a weather-heye on the Quarter Deck you 'ave. Youfink you're agoin' to be a blighted perishin' orficer you do! Yus, youflat-footed matlot--not even a blasted tiffy you ain't, and you buys ablighted baccy-pouch and yaller baccy and fag-pipers, like a Snottie, an' reckons you's on the 'igh road to be a bloomin' Winnie LloydGorgeous Orficer. 'And 'em 'ere--fore I'm sick. Lootenant, --GunneryJack, --Number One, --Commerdore!"

"Parding me, 'Enery Smiff, " returned William Jones with quiet dignity. "In consequents o' wot you said, an' more in consequents o' yoreclumsy fat fingers not been used to 'andlin' dellikit objex, and mostin consequents o' yore been a most ontrustable thief, I will perceedto roll you a fag meself, me been 'ighly competent so fer to do. Notbut wot a fag'll look most outer place in _your_ silly great uglyfaice. "

The other sailor watched the speaker in cold contempt as he prepared adistinctly exiguous, ill-fed cigarette. 

"Harthur Handrews, " he said, turning to his other neighbour, "'Ave yew'appened to see the Master Sail-maker or any of 'is mermydiuns'ere-abahts, by any chawnst?"

"Nope. 'An don' want. Don' wan' see nothink to remind me o'

 Ther blue, ther fresh, ther _hever_ free, Ther blarsted, beastly, boundin' sea. 

Not even your distressin' face and dirty norticle apparile. Why do youarksk sich silly questchings?"

"Willyerm Jones is amakin' a needle for 'im. "

"As 'ow?"

"Wiv a fag-paper an' a thread o' yaller baccy. 'E's makin' a bloomin'needle, " and with a sudden grab he possessed himself of the pouch, papers, and finished product of Seaman Jones's labours and generosity. 

Having pricked himself severely and painfully with the allegedcigarette, he howled with pain, cast it from him, proceeded to sticktwo papers together and to make an uncommonly stout, well-nourished, and bounteous cigarette. 

"I 'fought I offered you to make yourself a cigarette, 'Enery, "observed the astounded owner of the _materia nicotina_. 

"I grabbed for to make myself a cigarette, Willyerm, " was thepedantically correct restatement of Henry. 

"Then why go for to try an' mannyfacter a bloomin' banana?" asked theindignant victim, whose further remarks were drowned in the roars ofapplause which greeted the appearance from the dressing-tents of theChampion and the Challenger. 

Dam and Corporal Dowdall entered the ring from opposite corners, seated themselves in the chairs provided for them, and submittedthemselves to the ministrations of their respective seconds. 

Trooper Herbert Hawker violently chafed Dam's legs, Trooper Bear hisarms and chest, while Trooper Goate struggled to force a pair of newboxing-gloves upon his hands, which were scientifically bandagedaround knuckles, back, and wrist, against untimely dislocations andsprains. 

Clean water was poured into the bowls which stood behind each chair, and fresh resin was sprinkled over the canvas-covered boards of theRing. 

Men whose favourite "carried their money" (and each carried a gooddeal) anxiously studied that favourite's opponent. 

The Queen's Greys beheld a gorilla indeed, a vast, square, long-armedhairy monster, with the true pugilist face and head. 

"Wot a werry ugly bloke, " observed Seaman Arthur Andrews to SeamanHenry Smith. "'E reminds me o' Hadmiral Sir Percy 'Opkinton, so 'e do. P'raps 'e's a pore relation. "

"Yus, " agreed Seaman Smith. "A crost between our beloved 'Oppy an' oleBill Jones 'ere. Bill was reported to 'ave 'ad a twin brother--but itwas allus serposed Bill ate 'im when 'e wasn' lookin'. "

The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man wholooked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of theprize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristlybaldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened, his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, andgeneral appearance and bearing of an officer. 

Ho, G'rilla Dowdall would make short work of _that_ tippy young toff. Why, look at him!

And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a spacetwenty-four feet square. 

Let the challenger wait till G'rilla put his fighting face on--fairterrifyin'. 

Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner wouldsuccessfully defend the title and "give the swankin' Queen's Greyssomething to keep them _choop_[25] for a bit. Gettin' above 'emselvesthey was, becos' this bloke of theirs had won Best Man-at-Arms and hadthe nerve to challenge G'rilla Dowdall, R. G. A. "

Even the R. H. A. Admitted the R. G. A. To terms of perfect equality onthat great occasion. 

But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors, and ancient followers of the Noble Art were not so sure. 

"Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former, " saidMajor Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; "other things being equal ofcourse--skill and ring-craft. And I hear that No. 2--the Queen'sGreys' man--is unusually fast for a heavy-weight. "

"I'd like to see him win, " admitted the Colonel. "The man looks agentleman. _Doesn't_ the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!"

The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped intothe ring. 

"Silence, please, " he bawled. "Fifteen-round contest between CorporalDowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-WeightChampion of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1--on my right 'and) andTrooper Matthewson, Queen's Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2--on my left'and). Please keep silence durin' the rounds. The winner isHeavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and 'olderof the Elliott Belt. All ready there?"

Both combatants were ready. 

"Come here, both of you, " said the referee. 

As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight withBully Harberth and smiled. 

"Nervous sort o' grin on the figger-'ead o' the smaller wessel, don'tit, " observed Seaman Smith. 

"There wouldn't be no grin on _your_ fat face at all, " returned SeamanJones. "It wouldn't be there. You'd be full-steam-ahead, bearings'eated, and showin' no lights, for them tents--when you see wot youwas up against. "

The referee felt Dam's gloves to see that they contained no foreignbodies in the shape of plummets of lead or other illegalgratifications. (He had known a man fill the stuffing-compartments ofhis gloves with plaster of Paris, that by the third or fourth round hemight be striking with a kind of stone cestus as the plaster mouldedwith sweat and water, and hardened to the shape of the fist. )

As he stepped back, Dam looked for the first time at his opponent, conned his bruiser face and Herculean body, and, with a gasp andshudder, was aware that a huge tattooed serpent reared its head in thecentre of his vast chest while smaller ones encircled the mightybiceps of his arms. He clutched the rope and leant trembling againstthe post as the referee satisfied himself (with very great care inthis case) of the innocence of the Gorilla's gloves. 

"I know you of old, Dowdall, " he said, "and I shall only caution youonce mind. Second offence--and out you go. "

Corporal Dowdall grinned sheepishly. He appeared to think that adelicate and gentlemanly compliment had been paid to his generaldowniness, flyness, and ring-craft, --the last of which, for CorporalDowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pass, an inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss. MajorO'Halloran, first-class bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing hisrefereeing inside the ring and within a foot or two of the principals, where he expected foul play. 

As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam passed his hand wearily acrosshis face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud. 

It was _not_ fair. Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate himbefore thousands of spectators? Why should It be brought here to shamehim in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgracehis regiment, make the Queen's Greys a laughing-stock?

But--he had fought an emissary of the Snake before--and he had won. This villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps _the Snake Itself inhuman form_--and, see, he was free, he was in God's open air, nochains bound him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dugbeneath the Pit itself! This was all tangible and real. He would havefair play and be able to defend himself. This was not a blue roomwith a mud floor. Nay, he would be able to attack--to fight, fightlike a wounded pantheress for her cubs. This accursed Snake in HumanForm would only be able to use puny fists. Mere trivial human fistsand human strength. Everything would be on the human plane. It wouldbe unable to wrap him in its awful coils and crush and crush the souland life and manhood out of him, as it did at night before burrowingits way ten million miles below the floor of Hell with him, andimmuring him in a molten incandescent tomb where he could not evenscream or writhe. 

"Get to your corners, " said the referee, and Dam returned to his placewith a cruel smile upon his compressed lips. By the Merciful LivingGod he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form--to dowith as he could. Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times offacing him in his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life, a dishonoured name and _a lost Lucille!_

When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter itlifeless to the ground?

"Don't grind yer silly teeth like that, " whispered Hawker, his grimugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles deWarrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters). "You're awastin' henergy all the time. "

"God! if they don't give the word in a minute I shall be unable tohold off It, " replied Dam wildly. 

"That's the sperrit, Cocky, " approved Hawker, "but donchew fergit yougotter larst fifteen bloomin' rahnds. 'Taint no kindergarters. '_E_'ll stick it orlrite, an' you'll avter win on _points_----"

"Seconds out of the Ring, " cried the time-keeper, staring at hiswatch. 

"Don't get knocked out, dear boy, " implored Trooper Bear. "Fight towin on points. You _can't_ knock him out. I'm going to pray like hellthrough the rounds----"

_"Time"_ barked the time-keeper, and, catching up the chair as Damrose, Trooper Bear dropped down from the boards of the ring to theturf, where already crouched Hawker and Goate, looking like men aboutto be hanged. 

The large assembly drew a deep breath as the combatants approachedeach other with extended right hands--Dam clad in a pair of blue silkshorts, silk socks and high, thin, rubber-soled boots, the Gorilla inan exiguous bathing-garment and a pair of gymnasium shoes. 

Dam a picture of the Perfect Man, was the taller, and the Gorilla, aperfect Caliban, was the broader and had the longer reach. Their righthands touched in perfunctory shake, Dam drew back to allow the Snaketo assume sparring attitude, and, as he saw the huge shoulders hunch, the great biceps rise, and the clenched gloves come to position, heassumed the American "crouch" attitude and sprang like a tiger uponthe incarnation of the utter Damnation and Ruin that had cursed hislife to living death. 

The Gorilla was shocked and pained! The tippy pink-and-white blastedrookie was "all over him" and he was sent staggering with such a rainof smashing blows as he had never, never felt, nor seen othersreceive. The whole assembly of soldiers, saving the GarrisonArtillerymen, raised a wild yell, regardless of the referee'sferocious expostulations (in dumb-show) and even the ranks of theHorse-Gunners could scarce forbear to cheer. The Queen's Greys howledlike fiends and Hawker, unknown to himself, punched the boards beforehim with terrific violence. Never had anything like it been seen. Matthewson was a human whirlwind, and Dowdall had not had a chance toreturn a blow. More than half the tremendous punches, hooks andin-fighting jabs delivered by his opponent had got home, and he was"rattled". A fair hook to the chin might send him down and out at anymoment. 

Surely never had human being aimed such an unceasing, unending, rainof blows in the space of two minutes as had Trooper Matthewson. Hisarms had worked like the piston rods of an express engine--as fast andas untiringly. He had taken the Gorilla by surprise, had rushed him, and had never given him a fraction of time in which to attack. Beneaththe rain of sledge-hammer blows the Gorilla had shrunk, guarding fordear life. Driven into a corner, he cowered down, crouched beneath hisraised arms, and allowed his face to sink forward. Like a whirlingpiece of machinery Dam's arm flew round to administer the_coup-de-grace_, the upper cut, that would lay the Snake twitchingand unconscious on the boards. 

The Gorilla was expecting it. 

As it came, his bullet head was jerked aside, and as the first swungharmlessly up, he arose like a flash, and, as he did so, his mightyright shot up, took Darn on the chin and laid him flat and senselessin the middle of the ring. 

The Gorilla breathed heavily and made the most of the respite. He knewit must be about "Time, " and that he had not won. If it wasn't "Time, "and the cub arose he'd knock him to glory as he did so. Yes, themoment the most liberal-minded critic could say he was just about onhis feet, he'd give him a finisher that he'd bear the mark of. Thebloomin' young swine had nearly "had" him--him, the great G'rillaDowdall, about to buy himself out with his prize-money, and take topugilism as a profession. 

"_One--two--three--four, _" counted the timekeeper amid the mostdeathly silence, and, as he added, _"five--six--Time, "_ a shout arosethat was heard for miles. 

Trooper Matthewson was saved--if his seconds could pull him round intime. 

At sound of the word "Time, " the seconds leapt into the ring. Hawkerand Bear rushed to the prostrate Dam, hauled him to his feet, anddragged him to the chair which Goate had placed ready. As he wasdropped into it, a spongeful of icy water from Goate's big spongebrought Dam to consciousness. 

"Breave for all y'r worf, " grunted Hawker, as he mightily swung a bigbath-towel in swift eddies, to drive refreshing air upon the heaving, panting body of his principal. 

Bear and Goate applied massaging hands with skilled violence. 

"By Jove, I thought you had him, " panted Goate as he kneaded tricepsand biceps. "And then I thought he had you. It's anybody's fight, Matty--but _don't_ try and knock him out. You couldn't do it with anaxe. "

"No, " agreed Bear. "You've got to keep on your feet and win onpoints. "

"I've got to kill _the Snake_, " hissed Dam, and his seconds glanced ateach other anxiously. 

He felt that nothing could keep him from victory. He was regaining hisfaith in a just Heaven, now that the Snake had been compelled to facehim in the puny form of a wretched pugilist. Some one had saidsomething about an axe. It would be but fair if he had an axe, seeingthat hitherto the Snake had had him utterly defenceless whileexercising its own immeasurable and supernatural powers, whentorturing him to its heart's content for endless aeons. But--no--sinceit was here in human form and without weapons, _he_ would use none, and would observe the strictest fairness in fight, just as he would toa real human enemy. 

"Abaht that there little bet, 'Enery, " observed Seaman Jones, "I finkwe'll alter of it. I don't wish to give no moral support to this 'ereGriller. T'other bloke's only jus' fresh from the Novice Class, Ireckon, jedgin' by 'is innercent young faice, an' e's aputtin' up thewerry best fight as ever I see. We'll chainge it like this 'ere. Webacks the 'orse-soldier to win, and, if he _do_, we drinks a gallonbetween us. If 'e don't, we drinks _two_ fer to console 'im, an' drahnsorrer, wot?"

"So it are, Will'm, " agreed Henery. "Then we wins _either_ way! _You_got a 'ead fer logger-rhythms. Oughter been a bloomin' bookie. They'as to be big an' ugly----"

"Seconds out of the Ring, " called the referee, and a hush fell uponthe excited throng. 

Bear and Goate dropped to the ground, Hawker splashed water all overDam's body and, as he rose on the word "_Time_" snatched away thechair and joined his colleagues, who crouched with faces on a levelwith the boards. 

"Oh, buck him up, good Lord, and put ginger in his short-arm work, andO Lord, take care of his chin and mark, " prayed Trooper Bear, withdeep and serious devoutness. 

No need to shake hands this bout--not again till the fifteenth, notedDam, as he arose and literally leapt at his opponent with a smashingdrive of his right and a feint of his left which drew the Gorilla'sguard and left his face exposed. The Gorilla received Dam's fullweight and full strength, and, but for the ropes, would have beenknocked among the spectators. 

A tremendous yell went up, led by the Queen's Greys. 

As the tautening of the ropes swayed the Gorilla inward again, Damdelivered a brace of lightning strokes that, though they did not findthe chin, staggered and partly stunned him, and, ere he could pullhimself together, Dam was inside his guard, almost breast to breastwith him, and raining terrific blows, just above the belt. Left, right, left, right, and no chance for the Gorilla to get his own handsup for a couple of seconds, and, when he could, and drove an appallingblow at Dam's chin, it was dodged and he received a cross-counter thatshook him. He must sham weariness and demoralization, lead the tippyrookie on to over-confidence and then land him clean over the ropes. Asullen rage grew in the Gorilla's heart. He wasn't doing himselfjustice. He wasn't having a fair show. This blasted half-set pink andwhite recruit hadn't given him time to settle down. A fifteen-roundcontest shouldn't be bustled like _this!_ The bloke was more like awild-cat than a sober heavyweight boxer. 

He received a heavy blow in the face and, as he shook his head with anevil grin, according to his custom when well struck, he found itfollowed practically instantaneously by another. The swab was aboutthe quickest thing that ever got into a ring. He was like one of thesebloomin', tricky, jack-in-the-box featherweights, instead of a steadylumbering "heavy". And the Gorilla allowed himself to be driven to acorner again, and let his head sink forward, that the incautious youthmight again put all his strength into an upper-cut, miss as the otherdodged, and be at the mercy of the Gorilla as the errant fistcompleted its over-driven swing. 

But Damocles de Warrenne fought with his brain as well as his strengthand skill. He had learnt a lesson, and no dull-witted oaf of a Gorillawas going to have him like that twice. As the Gorilla cowered andcrouched in simulated defeat and placed his face to tempt the _coup degrace_ which he would see swinging up, and easily dodge, Dam swiftlyside-stepped and summoning every ounce of strength, rage, and madprotesting frenzy against the life-long torturing tyrant, he delivereda Homeric blow at the champion's head, beside and behind the ear. (Since he was indestructible by the ordinary point-of-the-chinknock-out, let him make the best of that fearful blow upon the base ofthe brain and spinal cord, direct. )

Experienced men said it was the heaviest blow they had ever seenstruck with the human fist. It was delivered slightly downward, coolly, at measured distance, with change from left foot to right inthe act of delivery, and with the uttermost strength of a mostpowerful athlete in perfect training--and Hate Incarnate lent thestrength of madness to the strength of training and skill. 

THUD!--and the Gorilla dropped like a log. 

_"One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--"_ counted thetime-keeper, as men scarcely breathed in the dead silence into whichthe voice cut sharply--_"eight--"_ and, in perfect silence, every manof those thousands slowly rose to his feet--_"nine--OUT!"_ and such aroar arose as bade fair to rend the skies. _"Outed" in two rounds!_Men howled like lunatics, and the Queen's Greys behaved like verydangerous lunatics. Hawker flung his arms round Dam and endeavoured toraise him on his shoulders and chair him unaided. Bear and Goate goteach a hand and proceeded to do their best to crush it. 

Seamen Jones and Smith exchanged a chaste kiss. 

Damocles de Warrenne was the hero of the Queen's Greys. BestMan-at-Arms in the Division, winner in Sword v. Sword Mounted andDismounted, Tent-pegging, Sword v. Lance, and Individual Jumping, andin the winning teams for Tug-of-War, Section Jumping, and SectionTent-pegging!

"Give him a trial as Corporal then, from the first of next month, sir, if there's no sign of anything wrong during the week, " agreed CaptainDaunt, talking him over with the Colonel, after receiving throughTroop-Sergeant-Major Scoles a petition to promote the man. 

Within twenty-four hours of his fight with the Gorilla, Dam foundhimself on sentry-go over what was known in the Regiment as "the Dead'Ole"--which was the mortuary, situated in a lonely, isolated spotbeyond a nullah some half-furlong from the Hospital, and cut off fromview of human habitation by a belt of trees. 

On mounting guard that evening, the Sergeant of the Guard had beeninformed that a corpse lay in the mortuary, a young soldier havingbeen taken ill and having died within a few hours, of some disease ofa distinctly choleraic nature. 

"I'll tell _you_ orf for that post, Matthewson, " said the Sergeant. "P'raps you'll see ghosties there, for a change, " for it was customaryto mount a sentry over "the Dead 'Ole" when it contained an occupant, and one of the sentry's pleasing duties was to rap loudly andfrequently upon the door throughout the night to scare away thosevermin which are no respecters of persons when the persons happen tobe dead and the vermin ravenous. 

"I'm not afraid of ghosts, Sergeant, " replied Dam--though his heartsank within him at the thought of the long lonely vigil in the dark, when he would be so utterly at the mercy of the Snake--the Snake overwhom he had just won a signal victory, and who would be all the morevindictive and terrible in consequence. Could he keep sane through thelonely darkness of those dreadful hours? Perhaps--if he kept himselfin some severe physical agony. He would put a spur beneath histight-drawn belt and next to his skin, he would strike his kneefrequently with the "toe of the butt" of his carbine, he would putpebbles in his boots, and he would cause cramp in his limbs, oneafter the other. Any kind of pain would help. 

 * * * * *

It must be quarter of an hour since he had rapped on the mortuary doorand sent his messages of prohibition to mouse, rat, bandicoot, civet-cat, wild-cat or other vermin intruder through theroof-ventilation holes. He would knock again. A strange thingthis--knocking at a dead man's door in the middle of the night. Suppose the dead man called "Come in!" It would be intenselyinteresting, but in no wise terrifying or horrible. Presumably pooryoung Trooper Priddell was no more dangerous or dreadful in the spiritthan he had been in the flesh.... Fortunate young man! Were he only onsentry-go outside the peaceful mortuary and Damocles de Warrennestretched on the bier within, to await the morrow and its pomp andceremony, when the carcass of the dead soldier would receive honoursnever paid to the living, sentient man, be he never so worthy, heroic, virtuous and deserving. Oh, to be lying in there at rest, to be on theother side of that closed door at peace!... 

To-morrow that poor dead yokel's body would receive a "Present Arms"(as though he were an armed party commanded by an Officer) from theGuard, which the sentry would turn out as the coffin passed theGuard-room. For the first and last time in his life, he would get a"_Present Arms_". It wouldn't be in his _life_ though. For the firstand last time in his death? That didn't sound right either. Anyhow hewould get it, and lots of strange, inexplicable, origin-forgottenrites would be observed over this piece of clay--hitherto so cheaplyheld and roughly treated. 

Queer! As "Trooper Priddell" he was of no account. As a piece offast-decaying carrion he would be the centre of a piece of elaborateceremonial! His troop would parade in full dress and (save for afiring-party of twelve who would carry carbines) without arms. Aspecial black horse would be decked out with a pall of black velvetand black plumes. Across this horse the spurred jackboots of the deadman would be slung with toes pointing to the rear. Two men, wearingblack cloaks, would lead the horse by means of new handkerchiefspassed through the bridoon rings of its bridle, handkerchiefs whichwould become their perquisites and _memento mori_. 

With crape-draped drums, the band, in silence, would lead the troop tothe mortuary where would await it a gun-carriage with its six horsesand coffin-supporting attachment. Here the troop would break ranks, file into the mortuary and bare-headed take, each man, his last lookat the face of the dead as he lay in his coffin. The lid would then bescrewed on, the troop would form a double line, facing inward, thefiring-party would "present arms, " and six of the dead man's moreparticular pals, or of his "townies, " would bear the coffin out andplace it upon the gun-carriage. It would then be covered with a UnionJack and on it would be placed the helmet, sword, and carbine of thedeceased trooper, the firing-party standing meanwhile, leaning ontheir reversed carbines, with bowed heads. 

As the melancholy procession formed up for its march to the graveyard, the smallest and junior men would take front place, the bigger andsenior men behind them, non-commissioned officers would follow, andsubalterns and captain last of all. In stepping off from the halt, allwould step off with the right foot instead of with the left. Apparently the object was to reverse ordinary procedure to theuttermost--which would but be in keeping with the great reversal ofshowing honour to such an unhonoured thing as a private soldier--oneof the despised and rejected band that enable the respectable, wealthy, and smug to remain so; one of the "licentious soldiery" thathave made, and that keep, the Empire of which the respectable wealthyand smug are so proud. 

At the "slow march, " and in perfect silence until beyond hearing bythe inmates of the Hospital, the cortege would proceed. Anon the bandwould call heaven and earth to mourn with the sonorous dreadfulstrains of the Dead March; whereafter the ordinary "quick march" wouldbring the funeral party to the cemetery, in sight of which the "slowmarch" would be resumed, and the Chaplain, surpliced, book-bearing, come forth to put himself at its head, leading the way to thegrave-side where, with uncovered heads, the mourners would listen tothe impressive words with feelings varying as their education, religion, temperament, and--digestion--impelled. 

At the close of the service, the firing-party in their places, six oneither side of the grave, would fire three volleys into the air, whilethe band breathed a solemn dirge. 

And--perhaps most impressively tragic touch of all--the party wouldmarch briskly off to the strains of the liveliest air in the wholerepertoire of the band. 

_Why_ should John Humphreyville Priddell--doubtless scion of the greatNorman houses of Humphreyville and Paradelle, who shared much ofDorsetshire between them from Domesday Book to Stuart downfall--havebeen born in a tiny village of the Vale of Froom in "Dorset Dear, " todie of cholera in vile Motipur? Was some maid, in barton, byre, ordairy, thinking of him but now--with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a letter beginning with "_I now take up my pen to right you these fewlines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me atpresent_" according to right tradition and proper custom, andcontinuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough, promotion, marrying "on the strength, " and retirement to green fairDorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major's pension?

What was the meaning of it all? Was it pure chance and accident--orhad a Living, Scheming, Purposeful Deity a great wise object in thisthat John Humphreyville Priddell should have been born and bred andnurtured in the Vale of Froom to be struck from lusty life to a deathof agony in a few hours at Motipur in the cruel accursed blighted landof Ind?

Well, well!--high time to rap again upon the door, the last door, ofJohn Humphreyville Priddell, Trooper, ex-dairyhand, decayingcarrion, --and scare from his carcass such over-early visitants asanticipated.... 

How hollowly the blows re-echoed. Did they strike muffled butmurderous upon the heart of the thousand-league distant dairymaid, orof the old cottage-mother whose evenings were spent in spelling outher boy's loving letters--that so oft covered a portion of hisexiguous pay?... 

Was that a scuttling within? Quite probably. It might be--rats, itmight be a bandicoot; it could hardly be a jackal; it might be aSNAKE, --and Trooper Matthewson's carbine clattered to the ground andhis knees smote together as he thought the word. Pulling himselftogether he hastily snatched up his carbine with a flush of shame atthe slovenly unsoldierly "crime" of dropping it. He'd be dropping hisarms on parade next! But it _might be a snake_--for he had certainlyheard the sound of a movement of some sort. The strong man felt faintand leant against the mortuary wall for a moment. 

Oh, that the wretched carbine were a sword! A man could feel a _man_with a sword in his hand. He could almost face the Snake, even inSnake form, if he had a sword ... But what is a carbine, even aloaded Martini-Henry carbine with its good soft man-stopping slug?There are no traditions to a carbine--nothing of the Spirit of one'sAncestors in one--a vile mechanic thing of villainous saltpetre. Howshould the Snake fear that? Now a sword was different. It stood forhuman war and human courage and human deeds from the mistiest past, and behind it must be a weight of human wrath, feats, and traditionthat must make even the Snake pause. Oh, for his sword--if the Snakecame upon him when he had but this wretched carbine he would probablydesert his post, fling the useless toy from him, and flee till he fellblind and fainting on the ground.... And what would the Trooper of theQueen get who deserted his sentry-post, threw away his arms andfled--and explained in defence that he had seen a snake? Probably acourt-martial would give him a spell of Military Prison. Yes--_Jail_.... What proportion of truth could there be in thefirmly-held belief of the men that "crimes" are made so numerous andso inevitable, to the best-meaning and most careful, because thereexist a great Military Prison System and a great Military Prisonpersonnel--and that "criminals" are essential to the respective properinhabitation and _raison d'ętre_ thereof--that unless a good supply ofmilitary "criminals" were forthcoming there might have to bereductions and curtailments--loss of snug billets.... Certainlysoldiers got years of imprisonment for "crimes" for which civilianswould get reprimands or nominal fines, and, moreover, when a manbecame a soldier he certainly lost the elementary fundamental rightsguaranteed to Englishmen by Magna Charta--among them the right oftrial by his peers.... 

Would poor Priddell mind if he did not knock again? If it were theSnake it could do Priddell no harm now--he being happilydead--whereas, if disturbed, it might emerge to the utterundoing--mind, body, and soul--of Trooper Matthewson. It wouldcertainly send him to Jail or Lunatic Asylum--probably to both in duesuccession, for he was daily getting worse in the matter of the Snake. 

No--it was part of his orders, on this sentry-post, to knock at thedoor, and he would do his duty, Snake or not. He had always tried todo his duty faithfully and he would continue.... 

Once more to knock at a dead man's door.... 

_Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump: Bump, Bump_. 

"You'll soon be at rest, Priddell, old chap--and I wish I could joinyou, " called Dam, and it seemed to his excited brain that _a deephollow groan replied_. 

"By Jove! He's not dead, " coolly remarked the man who would have fledshrieking from a harmless blind-worm, and, going round to the back ofthe building, he placed his carbine against the wall and sprang up ata kind of window-ledge that formed the base of a grated aperture madefor purposes of ventilation. Slowly raising his body till his facewas above the ledge, he peered into the dimly moonlit cell and thendropped to the ground and, catching up his carbine, sprinted in thedirection of the Hospital Guard-room. 

There arrived, he shouted for the Corporal of the Guard and wasquickly confronted by Corporal Prag. 

"Wot the devil you deserted yore".... He began. 

"Get the key of the mortuary, send for the Surgeon, and come at once, "gasped Dam as soon as he could speak. "_Priddell's not dead_. Must besome kind of catalepsy. Quick, man".... 

"Catter wot? You drunken 'og, " drawled the Corporal. "Catter_waulin'_more like it. Under arrest you goes, my lad. Now you _'ave_ done it. 'Ere, 'Awker, run down an' call up the Sergeant o' the Guard an' tell'im Maffewson's left 'is post. 'E'll 'ave to plant annuvver sentry. Maffewson goes ter clink. "

"Yes--but send for the Surgeon and the key of the mortuary too, "begged Dam. "I give you fair warning that Priddell is alive andgroaning and off the bier--"

"Pity _you_ ain't 'off the beer' too, " said the Corporal with a yawn. 

"Well--there are witnesses that I brought the report to you. IfPriddell is found dead on the ground to-morrow you'll have to answerfor manslaughter. "

"'Ere, _chuck_ it you snaike-seeing delirying trimmer, _will_ yer!Give anyone the 'orrers to listen to yer! When Priddell is wrote offas 'Dead' 'e _is_ dead, whether 'e likes it or no, " and he turned togive orders to the listening guard to arrest Trooper Matthewson. 

The Sergeant of the Guard arrived at the "double, " followed by TrooperBear carrying a hurricane-lamp. 

"What's the row?" panted the Sergeant. "Matthewson on the booze agin?"

"I report that there is a living man in the mortuary, Sergeant, "replied Dam. "Priddell is not dead. I heard him groan, and I scrambledup to the grating and saw him lying on the ground by the door. "

"Well, you'll see yerself groanin' an' lyin' on the ground in theDigger, now, " replied the Sergeant, and, as much in sorrow as inanger, he added, "An' _you_'re the bloke I signed a petition for hispermotion are yer? At it agin a'ready!"

"But, good Heavens, man, can't you see I'm as sober as you are, andmuch less excited? Can't you send for the key of the mortuary and callthe doctor? The poor chap may die for your stupidity. "

"You call _me_ a 'man' again, my lad, an' I'll show you what aSergeant can do fer them as 'e don't like! As fer 'sober'--I've 'adenough o' you 'sober'. W'y, in two ticks you may be on the ground'owlin' and bellerin' and squealin' like a Berkshire pig over theblood-tub. _Sober_! Yus--I seen you at it. "

"Why on earth can't you come and _prove_ I'm drunk or mad, " besoughtDam. "Open the mortuary and prove I'm wrong--and then put me underarrest. Call the Surgeon and say the sentry over the mortuary reportsthe inmate to be alive--_he_ has heard of catalepsy and comatosecollapse simulating death if _you_ haven't. "

"Don' use sech 'orrible languidge, " besought the respectable CorporalPrag. 

"Ho, yus! _I_'m agoin' to see meself whipt on the peg fer turnin' outthe Surgin from 'is little bed in the middle o' the night--to come an''ave a look at the dead corpse 'e put in orders fer the Dead 'Ole, ain't I? Jest becos the champion snaike-seer o' E Troop's got 'emagin, wot?"

Corporal Prag laughed merrily at the wit of his superior. 

Turning to Bear, whom he knew to be as well educated as himself, Damremarked:--

"Poor chap has rallied from the cholera collapse and could probably besaved by stimulants and warmth. This suspended animation is commonenough in cholera. Why, the Brahmins have a regular ritual for dealingwith cases of recovery on the funeral pyre--purification afterdefilement by the corpse-washers or something of the sort. Thesestupid oafs are letting poor Priddell die--"

"What! you drunken talkin' parrot, " roared the incensed Sergeant. "'Ere, sling 'is drunken rotten carkis--"

"What's the row here?" cut in a quiet curt voice. "Noise enough for agang of crows----"

Surgeon-Captain Blake of the Royal Army Medical Corps had just leftthe Hospital, having been sent for by the night Nursing Sister. Themen sprang to attention and the Sergeant saluted. 

"Drunk sentry left 'is post, Sir, " he gabbled. "'Spose the Dead'Ole--er--Morshuerry, that is, Sir, got on 'is nerves. 'E's given tosecret boozin', Sir----"

"Excuse me, Sir, " broke in Dam, daring to address an Officer unbidden, since a life was at stake, "I am a total abstainer and TrooperPriddell is not dead. It must have been cataleptic trance. I heard himgroan and I climbed up and saw him lying on the ground. "

"This man's not drunk, " said Captain Blake, and added to himself, "andhe's an educated man, and a cultured, poor devil. "

"Oh, that's how 'e goes on, Sir, sober as a judge you'd say, an' thennex' minnit 'e's on the floor aseein' blue devils an' pinkserpients----"

"The man's dying while we talk, Sir, " put in Dam, whose wrath wasrising. (If these dull-witted ignorant louts could not tell a drunkenman from a sober, nor realize that a certified dead man may _not_ bedead, surely the doctor could. )

The Sergeant and the Corporal ventured on a respectful snigger. 

"Bring me that lamp, " said Captain Blake, and Trooper Bear raised itto his extended hand. Lifting it so that its light shone straight inDam's face the doctor scanned the latter and examined his eyes. Thiswas not the face of a drunkard nor was the man in any way under theinfluence of liquor now. Absurd! Had he fever? Was he of derangedintellect? But, alas, the light that shone upon Dam's face also shoneupon Captain Blake's collar and upon the badge of his Corps whichadorned it--and that badge is a serpent entwining a rod. 

It was the last straw! Dam had passed through a most disturbing night;he had kept guard in the lonely Snake-haunted darkness, guard over amortuary in which lay a corpse; he had had to keep knocking at thecorpse's door, his mind had run on funerals, he had thought he heardthe dead man groan, he believed he had seen the dead man moving, hehad wrestled with thick intelligences who held him drunk or mad whileprecious moments passed, and he had had the Snake before his mentalvision throughout this terrible time--and here was another of itsemissaries _wearing its badge_, an emissary of high rank, anOfficer-Emissary!... Well, he was in the open air, thank God, andcould put up a fight as before. 

Like a panther he sprang upon the unfortunate officer and bore him tothe ground, with his powerful hands enclosing the astoundedgentleman's neck, and upon the couple sprang the Sergeant, theCorporal, and the Hospital Guard, all save the sentry, who(disciplined, well-drilled man!) brought his carbine to the "order"and stood stiffly at "attention" in a position favourable for a goodview of the proceedings though strictly on his beat. 

Trooper Bear, ejaculating "Why do the heathen rage furiouslytogether, " took a running jump and landed in sitting posture on theheap, rolled off, and proceeded to seize every opportunity ofviolently smiting his superior officers, in his apparent zeal to helpto secure the dangerous criminal-lunatic. Thoughts of having just_one_ punch at a real Officer (if only a non-combatant still a genuineCommissioned Officer) flashed across his depraved mind. 

It was a Homeric struggle. Captain Blake was himself an old Guy'sRugger three-quarter and no mean boxer, and the Sergeant, Corporal, and Guard, were all powerful men, while Dam was a Samson furtherendowed with the strength of undeniable madness. When at length he wasdragged from Captain Blake's recumbent form, his hands torn from thatofficer's throat, and the group stood for a second panting, Damsuddenly felled Corporal Prag with such a blow as had been the undoingof the Gorilla, sent Sergeant Wotting head over heels and, ere theGuard could again close with him, drove his fist into the face of thesupposed myrmidon of the Snake and sprang upon his body once more.... 

It was some time before seven strong men could pinion him and carryhim on a stretcher to the Guard-room, and, of those seven strong men, only Trooper Bear bore no mark of serious damage. (Trooper Bear hadstruck two non-commissioned officers with great violence, in hismisdirected zeal, and one Commissioned Officer--though only playfullyand for the satisfaction of being able to say that he had done so. )That night, half dead, wholly mad, bruised and bleeding, Damocles deWarrenne lay in the dark cell awaiting trial on a charge of assaultingan Officer, striking his superior officers, resisting the Guard, deserting his sentry-post, and being drunk and disorderly. 

 * * * * *

"What'll he get, d'you think?" sadly asked Trooper Goate of TrooperHawker. 

"Two stretch 'ard laiber and discharged from the Army wiv'iggernerminny, " groaned Trooper Hawker. "Lucky fer 'im floggin'serbolished in the British Army. "

 * * * * *

When the mortuary door was unlocked next morning a little force wasrequired to open it, some obstacle apparently retarding its inwardmovement. The obstacle proved to be the body, now certainly the deadbody, of Trooper Priddell who had died with his fingers thrust underthe said door. [26]

PART III. 

THE SAVING OF A SOUL

CHAPTER XII. 

VULTURES AND LUCK--GOOD AND BAD. 

To the strongest and sanest mind there is something a small trifledisturbing, perhaps, in riding silently hour after hour on asoft-footed camel over soft sand in a silent empty land through themoonlit silent night, beside an overland-telegraph wire on everyindividual post of which sits a huge vulture!... Just as the sun set, a fiery red ball, behind the distant mountains, Damocles de Warrenne, gentleman-at-large, had caught sight of what he had sought in thedesert for some days, the said overland telegraph, and thereby savedhimself from the highly unpleasant death that follows prolongeddeprivation of water. He had also saved his camel from a littleearlier death, inasmuch as he had decided to probe for the faithfulcreature's jugular vein and carotid artery during the torturing heatsof the morrow and prolong his life at its expense. (Had he notpromised Lucille to do his best for himself?)

The overland telegraph pointed absolutely straight to the border cityof Kot Ghazi and, better still, to a river-bed which would containpools of water, thirty miles this side of it, at a spot a few milesfrom which stood a lost lone dak-bungalow on Indian soil--adak-bungalow whereat would be waiting a _shikarri_ retainer, and suchthings as tea, fuel, potted foods, possibly fresh meat, and luxury ofluxuries, a hot bath.... 

And, with a sigh of relief, he had wheeled his camel under thetelegraph wires after a glance at the stars and brief calculation asto whether he should turn to left or right. (He did not want toproceed until he collapsed under the realization that he was makingfor the troubled land of Persia. )

Anyhow, without knowing where he was, he knew he was on the road towater, food, human companionship (imagine Abdul Ghani a humancompanion!--but he had not seen a human face for three weeks, norheard nor uttered a word), and safety, after suffering the unpleasantexperience of wandering in circles, lost in the most inhospitabledesert on the earth. Vultures! He had not realized there were so manyin the world. Hour after hour, a post at every few yards, and on everypost a vulture--a vulture that opened its eyes as he approached, regarded him from its own point of view--that of the Eater whose lifeis an unending search for Meat--calculatingly, and closed them againwith a sigh at his remaining vigorousness. 

He must have passed hundreds, thousands, --had he died of thirst inactual fact and was he doomed to follow this line through this desertfor evermore as a punishment for his sins? No--much too mild apunishment for the God of Love to inflict, according to the Chaplain. This would be Eternal Bliss compared with the Eternal Fire. He must bestill alive ... Was he mad, then, and _imagining_ these unendingbird-capped posts? If not mad, he soon would be. Why couldn't they saysomething--mannerless brutes! Should he swerve off and leave thetelegraph line? No, he had starved and suffered the agonies of thirstfor nearly a week--and, if he could hang on all night, he might reachwater tomorrow and be saved. Food was a minor consideration and if hecould drink a few gallons of water, soak his clothes in it, lie init, --he could carry on for another day or two. Nearly as easy tosprawl face-downward on a camel-saddle as on the ground--and he hadtied himself on. The camel would rub along all right for days withcamel-thorn and similar dainties.... No, better not leave the line. Halt and camp within sight of it till the morning, when the bruteswould fly away in search of food? No ... Might find it impossible toget going again, if once man and beast lay down now ... Ride as far aspossible from the line, keeping it in sight? No ... If he fell asleepthe camel would go round in a circle again, and he'd wake up a dozenmiles from the line, with no idea of direction and position. Best tocarry straight on. The camel would stick to the line so long as he wasleft exactly on it ... Think it a road ... He could sleep withoutdanger thus. He would shut his eyes and not see the vultures, for ifhe saw a dozen more he knew that he would go raving mad, halt thecamel and address an impassioned appeal to them to _say_something--for God's sake to _say something_. Didn't they know that hehad been in solitary confinement in a desert for three weeks or threecenturies (what is time?) without hearing a sound or seeing a livingthing--expecting the SNAKE night and day, and, moreover, that he wasstarving, dying of thirst, and light-headed, and that he was in theawful position of choosing between murdering the camel that had stoodby him--no, under him--all that fearful time, and breaking his word toLucille--cheating and deceiving Lucille. Then why couldn't they _say_something instead of sitting there in their endless millions, mileafter billions of miles, post after billions of trillions ofposts--menacing, watchful, silent, silent as the awful desert, silentas the SNAKE.... This would not do ... He must think hard of Lucille, of the Sword, of his Dream, his Dream that came so seldom now. Hewould repeat Lucille's last letter, word for word:--

 "MY DARLING, "It is over, thank God--Oh, thank God--and you can leave the army at once and become a 'gentleman' in position as well as in fact. Poor old Grumper died on Saturday (as I cabled) and before he died he became quite another man--weak, gentle and anxious to make any amends he could to anybody. For nearly a week he was like this, and it was a most wonderful and pathetic thing. He spent most of the time in telling me, General Harringport, Auntie Yvette or the Vicar, about wicked things he had done, cruelties, meannesses, follies--it was most distressing, for really he has been simply a strong character with all the faults of one--including, as we know too well, lack of sympathy, hardness, and sometimes savage cruelty, which, after all, was only the natural result of the lack of sympathy and understanding. 

 "As he grew weaker he grew more sympathetic with illness and suffering, I suppose, for he sent for me in the middle of the night to say that he had suddenly remembered Major Decies' story about your probably being subject to fits and seizures in certain circumstances, and that he was coming to the conclusion that he had been hasty and unjust and had unmercifully punished you for no fault whatever. He said 'I have punished him for being punished. I have added my injustice to that of Fate. Write to him that I ask his pardon and confess my fault. Tell him I'll make such reparation as I can, ' and oh, Dam--he leaves _you_ Monksmead, and _me_ his money, on the understanding that we marry as soon as any physician, now living in Harley Street, says that you are fit to marry (I must write it I suppose) without fear of our children being epileptic, insane, or in any way tainted. If none of them will do this, I am to inherit Monksmead and part of the money and you are to have a part of the money. If we marry _then_, we lose everything and it goes to Haddon Berners. Mr. Wyllis, who has been his lawyer and agent for thirty years, is to take you to Harley Street (presumably to prevent your bribing and corrupting the whole of the profession there residing). 

 "Come at once, Darling. If the silly old physicians won't certify, why--what _does_ it matter? I am going to let lodgings at Monksmead to a Respectable Single Man (with board) and Auntie Yvette will see that he behaves himself. 

 "Cable what boat you start by and I'll meet you at Port Said. I don't know how I keep myself sitting in this chair. I could turn head over heels for joy! (And poor Grumper only just buried and his Will read!) He didn't lose quite all his grim humour in that wonderful week of softening, relenting and humanizing. What do you think he solemnly gave and bequeathed to the poor Haddock? His _wardrobe_!!! And nothing else, but if the Haddock wears only Grumper's clothes, including his boots, shirts, ties, collars and everything else, for one full and complete year, and wears absolutely nothing else, he is to have five thousand pounds at the end of it--and he is to begin on the day after the funeral! And even at the last poor Grumper was a foot taller and a foot broader (not to mention _thicker_) than the Haddock! It appears that he systematically tried to poison Grumper's mind against you--presumably with an eye on this same last Will and Testament. He hasn't been seen since the funeral. I wonder if he is going to try to win the money by remaining in bed for a year in Grumper's pyjamas!

 "Am I not developing 'self-control and balance'? Here I sit writing news to you while my heart is screaming aloud with joy, crying 'Dam is coming home. Dam's troubles are over. Dam is saved!' Because if you are ever so 'ill, ' Darling, there is nothing on earth to prevent your coming to your old home at once--and if we can't marry we can be pals for evermore in the dear old place of our childhood. But of _course_ we can marry. Hurry home, and if any Harley Street doctor gives you even a doubtful look, throw him up his own stairs to show how feeble you are, or tie his poker round his neck in a neat bow, and refuse to undo it until he apologizes. I'm sure you could! '_Ill_' indeed! If you can't have a little fit, on the rare occasions when you see a snake, without fools saying you are ill or dotty or something, it is a pity! Anyhow there is one small woman who understands, and if she can't marry you she can at any rate be your inseparable pal--and if the Piffling Little World likes to talk scandal, in spite of Auntie Yvette's presence--why it will be amusing. Cable, Darling! I am just bursting with excitement and joy--and fear (that something may go wrong at the last moment). If it saved a single day I should start for Motipur myself at once. If we passed in mid-ocean I should jump overboard and swim to your ship. Then you'd do the same, and we should 'get left, ' and look silly.... Oh, what nonsense I am talking--but I don't think I shall talk anything else again--for sheer joy!

 "You can't write me a lot of bosh _now_ about 'spoiling my life' and how you'd be ten times more miserable if I were your wife. Fancy--a soldier to-day and a 'landed proprietor' to-morrow! How I wish you were a _landed_ traveller, and were in the train from Plymouth--no, from Dover and London, because of course you'd come the quickest way. Did my cable surprise you very much?

 "I enclose fifty ten-pound notes, as I suppose they will be quicker and easier for you to cash than those 'draft' things, and they'll be quite safe in the insured packet. Send a cable at once, Darling. If you don't I shall imagine awful things and perhaps die of a broken heart or some other silly trifle. 

 "Mind then:--Cable to-day; Start to-morrow; Get here in a fortnight--and keep a beady eye open at Port Said and Brindisi and places--in case there has been time for me to get there. Au revoir. Darling Dam, "Your

 "LUCILLE. 

 "Three cheers! And a million more!"

 * * * * *

Yes, a long letter, but he could almost say it backwards. He couldn'tbe anything like mad while he could do that?... How had she receivedhis answer--in which he tried to show her the impossibility of anydecent man compromising a girl in the way she proposed in her sweetinnocence and ignorance. Of course _he_, a half-mad, epileptic, fiend-ridden monomaniac--nay, dangerous lunatic, --could not _marry_. Why, he might murder his own wife under some such circumstances asthose under which he attacked Captain Blake. (Splendid fellow Blake!Not every man after such a handling as that would make it his businessto prove that his assailant was neither drunk, mad, norcriminal--merely under a hallucination. But for Blake he would now bein jail, or lunatic asylum, to a certainty. The Colonel would have hadhim court-martialled as a criminal, or else have had him out of theregiment as a lunatic. Nor, as a dangerous lunatic, would he have beenallowed to buy himself out when Lucille's letter and his moneyarrived. Blake had got him into the position of a perfectly sober andsane person whose mind had been temporarily upset by a night ofhorror--in which a coffin-quitting corpse had figured, and so he hadbeen able to steer between the cruel rocks of Jail and Asylum to theblessed harbour of Freedom. )

Yes--in spite of Blake's noble goodness and help, Dam knew that he was_not_ normal, that he _was_ dangerous, that he spent long periods onthe very border-line of insanity, that he stood fascinated on thatborder-line and gazed far into the awful country beyond--the Realms ofthe Mad.... 

Marry! Not Lucille, while he had the sanity left to say "No"!

As for going to live at Monksmead with her and Auntie Yvette--it wouldbe an even bigger crime. Was it for _him_ to make _Lucille_ a"problem" girl, a girl who was "talked about, " a by-word for thosevile old women of both sexes whose favourite pastime is the inventionand dissemination of lies where they dare, and of even more damaginghead-shakes, lip-pursings, gasps and innuendoes where they do not?

Was it for _him_ to get _Lucille_ called "The Woman Who Did, " by thosescum of the leisured classes, and "That peculiar young woman, " by thebetter sort of matron, dowager and chaperone, --make her the kind ofperson from whose company careful mothers keep their innocentdaughters (that their market price may never be in danger of thefaintest depreciation when they are for sale in the matrimonialmarket), the kind of woman for whom men have a slightly and subtlydifferent manner at meet, hunt-ball, dinner or theatre-box? GetLucille "talked about"?

No--setting aside the question of the possibility of living under thesame roof with her and conquering the longing to marry. 

No--he had some decency left, tainted as he doubtless was by hisbarrack-room life. 

Tainted of course.... What was it he had heard the seniorsoldierly-looking man, whom the other addressed as "General, " sayconcerning some mutual acquaintance, at breakfast in the dining-cargoing up to Kot Ghazi?

"Yes, poor chap, was in the ranks--and no man can escape thebarrack-room taint when he has once lived in it. Take me into anyOfficers' Mess you like--say 'There is a promoted gentleman-rankerhere, ' and I'll lay a thousand to one I spot him. Don't care if he'sthe son of a Dook--nor yet if he's Royal, you can spot himalright.... "

Pleasant hearing for the "landed proprietor, " whom a beautiful, wealthy and high-bred girl proposed to marry!

Tainted or not, in that way--he was _mentally_ tainted, a fact besidewhich the other, if as true as Truth, paled into utterestinsignificance. 

No--he had taken the right line in replying to Lucille that he wasgetting worse mentally, that no doctor would dream of "vetting" him"sound, " that he was not scoundrel enough to come and cause scandaland "talk" at Monksmead, and that he was going to disappear completelyfrom the ken of man, wrestle with himself, and come to her and beg herto marry him directly he was better--sufficiently better to "pass thedoctor, " that is. If, meanwhile, she met and loved a man worthy ofher, such a man as Ormonde Delorme, he implored her to marry him andto forget the wholly unworthy and undesirable person who had merelyloomed large upon her horizon through the accident of propinquity ... 

(He could always disappear again and blow out such brains as hepossessed, if that came to pass, he told himself. )

Meanwhile letters to the Bank of Bombay would be sent for, at leastonce a year--but she was not to write--she was to forget him. As tosearching for him--he had not quite decided whether he would walkfrom Rangoon to Pekin or from Quetta to Constantinople--perhapsneither, but from Peshawur to Irkutsk. Anyhow, he was going to hidehimself pretty effectually, and put himself beyond the temptation ofcoming and spoiling her life. Sooner or later he would be mad, dead, or cured. If the last--why he would make for the nearest place wherehe could get news of her--and if she were then happily married tosomebody else--why--why--she _would_ be happy, and that would makehim quite happy ... 

Had the letter been quite sane and coherent--or had he been in aqueer mental state when he wrote it?... 

He opened his eyes, saw a vulture within a few yards of him, closedthem again, and, soon after, fell into an uneasy slumber as the camelpadded on at a steady seven miles an hour unurged--save by the _smell_of pure clear water which was still a score of miles distant.... 

When Damocles de Warrenne awoke, he was within a few hundred yards ofthe nearly dry River Helnuddi, where, failing occasional pools, thetraveller can always procure water by digging and patiently awaitingthe slow formation of a little puddle at the bottom of the hole. 

For a minute he halted. Should he dig while he had strength, or shouldhe turn to the left and follow the river-bed until he came to apool--or could go no farther? Perhaps he would be too weak to dig, though, by that time.... Remarkable how eager to turn to the left andget on, the camel was--considering how tired he must be--perhaps hecould smell distant water or knew of a permanent pool hereabouts. Well, let that decide it.... 

An hour later, as the camel topped a rise in the river-bank, aconsiderable pool came into view, tree-shaded, heron-haunted, tooincredibly beautiful and alluring for belief. Was it a mirage?... 

A few minutes later, Damocles de Warrenne and his camel were drinking, and a few hours later entered the dreary featureless compound of awretched hovel, which, to the man at least, was a palatial andmagnificent asylum (no, not _asylum_--of all words)--refuge andhome--the more so that a camel knelt chewing in the shade of thebuilding, and a man, Abdul Ghani himself, lay slumbering in theverandah.... 

"You understand, then, " said Dam in the vernacular, to the malodorous, hideous, avaricious Abdul who reappeared from Kot Ghazi a few dayslater, "you return here again, one week from to-day, bringing thethings written down on this paper, from the shop of Rustomji at KotGhazi. Here you wait until I come. If I find there is truth in your_khubbar_[27] of ibex you will be rewarded ... Why don't I take you?Because I want to be alone. Set out now for Kot Ghazi. I may return. " Astone fell and clattered. Dam shrank, cringed, and shut his eyes--asone expecting a heavy blow. _Ah-h-h-h-h_--had the beast bolted? Withthe slowness of an hour-hand he raised his head above the bank of thewatercourse until his eye cleared the edge. _No_--still there. After apainful crawl that seemed to last for hours, he reached the pointwhere the low ridge ran off at right-angles, crept behind it, and layflat on his face, to rest and recover breath. He was soaked inperspiration from head to foot, giddy with sun and unnatural posture, very sore as to elbows and knees, out of breath, trembling--andentirely happy. The half-mile crawl, with the greater part of his bodyon the burning ground, and the rifle to shuffle steadily along withoutnoise or damage, was the equivalent of a hard day's work to a strongman. At the end of it he lay gasping and sick, aching in every limb, almost blind with glare and over-exertion, weary to death--andentirely happy. Thank God he would be able to stand up in a moment andrest behind a big cactus. Then he would have a spell of foot-work fora change, and, though crouching double, would not be doing anycrawling until he had crossed the plateau and reached the bushes. 

The upward climb was successfully accomplished with frequent halts forbreath, behind boulders. On the plateau all that was required wassilence. The ibex could not see him up there. In his rubber-soledkhaki-coloured shoes he could almost run, but it was a questionwhether a drink of cold water would not be worth more than all theibexes in the world. 

He tip-toed rapidly across the level hill-top, reached the belt of lowbushes, dropped, and lay to recover breath before resuming the painfuland laborious crawling part of his journey. Was it possible to tapone's tongue against one's teeth and hear the noise of it as though itwere made of wood? It seemed so. Was this giddiness and dimness ofvision sunstroke? What would he give to have that fly (that hadfollowed him for hundreds of thousands of miles that morning) betweenhis fingers?

Last lap! There was the rock, and below it must be the quarry--if ithad not fled. He must keep that rock between himself and his prey andhe must get to it without a sound. It would be easy enough without therifle. Could he stick it through his belt and along his back, or trailit behind him? What nonsense! He must be getting a touch of sun. Wouldthese stones leave marks of burns on his clothes? Surely he couldsmell himself singeing. Enough to explode the rifle ... The big rockat last! A rest and then a peep, with infinite precaution. Dam heldhis breath and edged his face to the corner of the great boulder. Moving imperceptibly, he peeped ... _No ibex!_ ... He was about tospring up with a hearty malediction on his luck when he perceived apeculiar projection on a large stone some distance down the hill. Itmoved--and Dam dropped back. It must be the top of the curve of oneof the horns of the ibex and the animal must be lying down.... What todo? It might lie for hours and he himself might go to sleep. It mightget up and depart at any moment without coming into the line offire--without being seen indeed. Better continue the stalk and hope toget a standing shot, or, failing that, a running one. 

It looked a nasty descent, since silence was essential--steep, slippery, and strewn with round stones. Anyhow, he could go down onhis feet, which was something to be thankful for, as it was agony toput a knee or elbow to the ground. He crept on. 

Surely his luck was changing, for here he was, within fifty yards of astone behind which lay an unsuspecting ibex with a world's-recordhead. Hullo! a nasty little precipice! With a nastily sloping shelf atthe bottom too, eight feet away--and then another little precipice andanother sloping shelf at its base. 

Better lay the rifle on the edge, slip over, hang by the hands, grabit with one, and then drop the intervening few inches. Rubber soleswould play their part here! Damn this giddiness--touch of sun, nodoubt. Damocles de Warrenne knelt on the edge of the eight-foot drop, turned round, swayed, fell, struck the sloping ledge, rolled off it, fell, struck the next sloping ledge, fell thirty feet--arousing anastounded ibex _en route_--and landed in a queer heap on a thirdshelf, with a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, broken ankles, and a fractured thigh. 

A vulture, who had been interested in his proceedings for some time, dropped a few thousand feet and had a look. What he saw decided him tocome to earth. He perched on a rock and waited patiently. He knew thesymptoms and he knew the folly of taking risks. A friend or two joinedhim--each, as he left his place in the sky, being observed andfollowed by a brother who was himself in turn observed and followed byanother who brought others.... 

One of the hideous band had drawn quite near and was meditatingrewarding his own boldness with a succulent eye, when Dam groaned andmoved. The pretty birds also moved and probably groaned in spirit--butthey didn't move far. 

What was that Miss Smellie had been so fond of saying? "There is nosuch thing as 'luck, ' Damocles. All is ordered for the best by anall-seeing and merciful Providence. " Yes. No doubt. 

What was that remark of his old friend, "Holy Bill"?

"What do you mean by 'luck, ' Damocles? All that happens is ordained byGod in His infinite mercy. " Yes. 

Holy Bill had never done a day's work in his life nor missed ameal--save when bilious from overeating.... 

A pity the infinite mercy didn't run to a little water! It would havebeen easy for the all-seeing and merciful Providence to move him toretain his water-bottle when starting the stalk--if it were necessaryto the schemes of the Deity to have him smashed like a dropped egg.... What agony a human being could endure!... 

Not even his rifle at hand with its means of speedy death. He mightlive for days and then be torn alive by those accursed vultures. Onemighty effort to turn on his back and he would breathe easier--butthat would bring his eyes to the sun--and the vultures.... Had heslept or fainted? How long had he lain there?... Chance of beingfound? Absolutely none. Shikarri would have visited the dak-bungalow aweek ago. Camel left below on the plain--and it would wander milesfrom where he left it when it grew hungry. Even if Abdul and anorganized search-party were after him _now_ they might as well besearching for a needle in a hay-stack. No one knew which of thethousand gullies he had ascended and no one could track camel-pads orflat rubber soles over bare solid rock, even if given thestarting-point. No--he had got to die of thirst, starvation, andvultures, barring miracles of luck--and he had _never_ had any goodluck--for luck existed, undoubtedly, in spite of mealy-mouthedplatitude-makers and twaddle about everything being pre-arranged andordained with care and deliberation by a kind paternal Providence. 

And what luck he had had--all his life! Born fated!

Had he fainted again or slept? And could he hear the tinkle of iceagainst the sides of a tall thin tumbler of lemonade, or was it thesound of a waterfall of clear, cold water close by? Were the servantsasleep, or was the drink he had ordered being prepared?... No--he wasdying in agony on a red-hot rock, surrounded by vultures and probablywatched by foxes, jackals and hyenas. And a few yards away were therifle that would have put him out of his misery, and the water-bottlethat would have alleviated his pain--to the extent, at any rate, ofenabling him to think clearly and perhaps scribble a few words inblood or something, somehow, for Lucille ... Lucille! Would theAll-Merciful let him see her once again for a moment in return for anextra thousand years of Hell or whatever it was that unhappy mortalsgot as a continuation of the joys of this gay world? Could he possiblyinduce the vultures to carry him home--if he pledged himself to feedthem and support their progeny? They could each have a house in thecompound. It would pay them far better than eating him now. Did theyunderstand Pushtoo or was it Persian? Certainly not Hindustani andUrdu. People who came shooting alone in the desert and mountains, where vultures abounded, should learn to talk Vulture and pass theHigher Standard in that tongue. But even if they understood him theymight be unwilling to serve a coward. _Was_ he a coward? Anyhow he layglued with his own blood to the spot he would never leave--unless thevultures could be bribed. Useless to hope anything of the jackals. Hehad hunted too many foxes to begin now to ask favours. Besides theycould only drag, and he had been dragged once by a horse. Quite enoughfor one lifetime. But he had never injured a vulture. Pity he had nocopy of Grimm or Anderson with him--they contained much usefulinformation about talking foxes, obliging birds, and other mattersgermane to the occasion. If he could only get them to apply it, aworking-party of vultures and jackals certainly had the strength totransport him a considerable distance--alternately carrying anddragging him. The big bird, stalking nearer, was probably the_macuddam_ or foreman. Would it be at all possible for vultures tobring water? He would be very willing to offer his right hand inreturn for a little water. The bird would be welcome to eat it off hisbody if it would give him a drink first. Did not ravens bring meat tothe prophet Elijah? Intelligent and obliging birds. Probably cookedit, too. But water was more difficult to carry, if easier to procure. 

How close they were coming and how they watched with their horribleeyes--and pretended not to watch!... 

Oh, the awful, unspeakable agony! Why was he alive again? Was hischest full of terribly rusty machinery that would go on when it oughtto stop for want of oil?... If pain is punishment for sin, as placidstall-fed Holy Bill held (never having suffered any), then Damocles deWarrenne must have been the prince of sinners. Oh God! a little dropof water! Rivers of it flowing not many miles away!

Monsoons of it falling recently! A water-bottle full a few yardsdistant--and he must die for want of a drop ... What a complete circlethe vultures made on the rocks and stunted trees of the slopinghill-side. Oh, for a revolver! A man ought to carry one on shikarexpeditions. One would give him a chance of life when under a tiger orpanther--and a chance of decent death in a position such as this. Where had he read that vultures begin on the eyes of their prey?Without awaiting its death either, so long as it could not defenditself. There were other depraved gustatory preferences, too, if heremembered rightly-He would have an opportunity of testing theaccuracy of the statement--though not of assuring its author as to itscorrectness. 

Water ... Water ... Water ... 

Had he fainted again, that the vultures were so much nearer?... Whyshould he be a second Prometheus? Had he not had suffering enough inhis life, without having more in his death?... If the sending of alittle water were too obvious a miracle, was it too much to ask thathis next fainting and collapse might last long enough for the vulturesto get to work, make a beginning, and an end?

Surely that would not be too great a miracle, since he had lain foryears on a red-hot rock with blood in his mouth and his body wreckedlike a smashed egg. He must be practically dead. Perhaps if he heldhis laboured breath and closed his eyes they _would_ begin, and hewould have the strength to keep still when they did so. That would bethe quickest way. Once they started, it would not be long before hisbones were cleaned. No possible ghost of a chance of being saved. Probably no human foot had been on these particular rocks since humanfeet existed. Nor would he ever again have the strength to drag hisshattered body to where the rifle lay. Only a few yards away layspeedy happy release. 

"No such thing as luck, Damocles. "

Perhaps the vultures thought otherwise. 

Colonel John Decies, still of Bimariabad, but long retired on pensionfrom the Indian Medical Service, was showing his mental and physicalunfitness for the service of the Government that had ordered hisretirement, by devoting himself at the age of fifty-nine toaviation--aviation in the interests of the wounded on the battlefield. What he wanted to live to see was a flying stretcher-service of theRoyal Army Medical Corps that should flash to and fro at the rate of ahundred miles an hour between the rear of the firing-line and thefield hospital and base hospital in aeroplanes built especially forthe accommodation of wounded men--an officer of the Corps accompanyingeach in the dual capacity of surgeon and potential pilot. When heallowed his practical mind to wander among the vast possibilities ofthe distant future, he dreamed of bigger and bigger aeroplanes untilthey became fully equipped flying hospitals themselves, and removedthe wounded from the danger zone to the nearest salubrious spot fortheir convalescence. Meanwhile, he saw no reason why the more powerfulbiplanes should not carry an operating-table and all surgicalaccessories, a surgeon, and two or three wounded men who could not bemade sitting-up cases. 

To Colonel John Decies it seemed that if soldiers schemed to adapt theflying-machine to purposes of death and destruction, doctors might dothe same to purposes of life and salvation. Think of the differencebetween being jolted for hours in a bullock-cart in the dust and heatand being borne through the air without jerk or jar. Think of thehundreds of men who, in the course of one campaign, would be savedfrom the ghastly fate of lying unfound, unseen by thestretcher-bearers, to starve to death, to lie weltering in theirblood, to live through days of agony.... 

He was making quite a name for himself by his experiments at the KotGhazi flying-school and by his articles and speeches on the formationand training of a R. A. M. C. Flying branch. Small beginnings wouldcontent him (provided they were intended to lead to greatdevelopments)--an aeroplane at first, that could carry one or twospecial cases to which the ordinary means of transport would befatal, and that could scour the ground, especially in the case of verybroken terrain and hill-country, for overlooked cases, wounded menunable to move or call, and undiscovered by the searchers. 

He was hard at work on the invention of a strong collapsibleoperating-table (that could readily be brought into use in the fieldand also be used in aerial transport) and a case for the concentrationof equipment--operation instruments, rubber gloves, surgicalgauntlets, saline infusion apparatus, sterilizer, aseptic towels, chloroform, bandages, gauze, wool, sponges, drainage-tubing, inhaler, silk skeins, syringes, field tourniquets, waterproof cloth, stethoscope--everything, and the whole outfit, table and all, weighingforty pounds. This would be an improvement on the system of having toopen half a dozen medical and surgical cases when operating on theline of march, cases requiring the most expert repacking after use ... 

 * * * * *

Perhaps it was a sign of advancing years and weakening mind that thisfine specimen of a fine service felt that, when flying some thousandsof feet above the earth, he was nearer to Lenore in Heaven. All hisscience and sad experience had failed to deprive him of asub-conscious belief in an actual place "above, " a material Hereafterbeyond the sky, and, when clouds cut him off from sight of the earth, he had a quaint, half-realized feeling of being in the ante-room ofthe Great House of many mansions, wherein dwelt Lenore. 

Yes, when flying, Colonel John Decies felt that he was nearer to thewoman he had lost nearly a quarter of a century before. In one sensehe may have been so, for he was a very reckless airman, and never ingreater danger than when engaged in what he called "ground-scouring"among the air-current haunted, mist-haunted mountains of the Border. He anticipated an early Border-war and realized that here would be agreat opportunity for a keen-sighted and iron-nerved medical airman tolocate, if not to pick up, overlooked wounded. Here, too, would be adouble need of such service in a country where "the women come out tocut up what remains"! Imagine, too, cavalry reconnaissances and badcasualties a score of miles from medical help ... 

Whether it brought him nearer in any sense to Lenore de Warrenne, itbrought him nearer to her son, on one of those hundred-mile circular"scours" which he practised when opportunity offered, generallyaccompanied by a like-minded officer of the R. A. M. C. , to which Corpshe had become a kind of unofficial and honorary instructor in "First-Aid Flying" at the Kot Ghazi flying-school, situate in the plains atthe foot of the "Roof of the World". 

"Hullo!" said Colonel John Decies to himself--"vultures! I supposethey might be referred to in my manual as a likely guide to thewounded. Good idea. 'The flying casualty-scout should always takenote of the conduct of vultures, noting the direction of flight if anyare seen dropping to earth. These birds may prove invaluable guides. Acollection of them on the ground may indicate a wounded man who may bealive. ' ... "

The Colonel was thinking of his _magnum opus_, "The Aeroplane and theSurgeon, in War, " wherewith he lived laborious days at Bimariabad inthe intervals of testing, developing, and demonstrating his theoriesat Kot Ghazi. 

Turning his head, he shouted to Surgeon-Captain Digby-Soames, R. A. M. C. , his passenger and pupil:--

"Vultures on the left-front or starboard bow. 'Invariable battle-fieldsign of wounded man. Note spot if unable to land and rescue. Call upstretcher-party by signal--_Vide_ page 100 of Decies' great work, 'what?"

"By Jove, it is a wounded man, " replied Captain Digby-Soames, who wasusing field-glasses. "Damned if it isn't a Sahib, too! Out shikarringand sprained his ankle, I suppose. Dead, I'm afraid. Poor devil!"

"Vultures aren't _at work_, anyhow, " commented Colonel Decies. "Can'tland anywhere hereabouts, and I'm afraid 'calling up the stretcherparty' isn't in the game here. "

"Nothing nearer than Kot Ghazi and that's a good thirty miles, "replied Captain Digby-Soames as the aeroplane hovered and slowly sank. 

"Let's see all we can and then find the nearest landing-place. Searchall round for any sign of a tent or encampment. There may be adak-bungalow somewhere down in the plains, too. The river-bed down onthe right there, marks the border. "

Captain Digby-Soames "scoured" earnestly with his glasses. 

"Camel on the port-bow, at the foot of the hills, " he announced. "Whatmay be a dak-bungalow several miles away ... A white square dot, anyhow ... Camel saddled up, kneeling ... His, no doubt. Wonder wherehis shikarri is--"

As the aeroplane approached, the disappointed vultures departed, misliking the size, shape and sounds of the strange fowl. As it passedover him, and the Major shouted, Dam opened his eyes. 

This must be pretty well the end--when he heard the voice of some onehe knew well, and saw a flying-machine just above him. He would seeblocks of ice and cascades of cold water in a moment, doubtless, andhear Lucille calling. 

A flying-machine in Ghazistan! The voice of an old, old friend to whomhe could not, for the moment, give a name ... Why couldn't thecowardly brutes of vultures begin their business, and end his? Whatwas that familiar voice calling:--

"Hold on a bit, we'll soon be with you! Don't give up. We can't landjust here. If we drop anything can you crawl and get it?"

"He opened his eyes, " said Captain Digby-Soames, "but I doubt if he'sconscious. He must have come a frightful cropper. You can see there'sa compound fracture of the right femur from here, and one of his feetis fairly pointing backwards. Blood from the mouth, too. Anyhow he'salive. Better shoot him if we can't shift him----"

"We'll _get_ him all right. This is a Heaven-sent 'problem' and we'llsolve it--and I'll quote it in my 'manual'. Quite war-conditions. Verybadly wounded man--inaccessible position--stretcher-parties all out ofsight--aeroplane can't land for any first-aid nor to pick up thecasualty--_excellent_ problem and demonstration. That oont[28] willsimplify it, though. Look here--I'll drop down and land you by it, andthen come here again and hover. You bring the beast up--you'll be ableto ride most of the way if you zig-zag, and lead him most of the rest. Then you'll have to carry the casualty to the oont and bring himdown. "

The aeroplane swooped down and grounded gently within a hundred yardsof the kneeling camel, who eyed it with the cold and superciliousdisdain of his kind. 

"Tell you what, " said Colonel Decies, "when I get up there again, havea good squint and see if you think you can locate the spot foryourself from below. If you can, I'll come down again and we'll bothgo up on the oont. Bring the poor beggar down much better if one of uscan hold him while the other drives the camel. It's no Grand TrunkRoad, by Jove. "

"Right-O, " acquiesced Captain Digby-Soames. "If I can get a clearbearing to a point immediately below where you hover, I'll lie flat onthe ground as an affirmative signal. If there's no good landmark I'llstay perpendicular, what?"

"That's it, " said Colonel Decies, and, with a swift run and throbbingwhirr, the aeroplane soared from the ground and rose to where, athousand feet from the plain, lay the mangled "problem". As it came toa halt and hovered[29] (like a gigantic dragon-fly poised on itsinvisibly-rapid wings above a pool), the junior officer's practisedeye noted a practicable gully that debouched on a level with, and notfar from, the ledge over which the aeroplane hung, and that a stuntedthorn-tree stood below the shelf and two large cactus bushes on itsimmediate left. Having taken careful note of other landmarks andglanced at the sun, he lay on the ground at full length for a minuteand then arose and approached the camel, who greeted him with abubbling snarl. On its great double saddle were a gun-cover and a longcane, while from it dangled a haversack, camera, cartridge-case, satchel, canvas water-bag, and a cord-net holdall of odds and ends. 

Obviously the "problem's" shikar-camel. Apparently he was out withoutany shikarri, orderly, or servant--a foolish thing to do whenstalking in country in which a sprained ankle is more than apossibility, and a long-range bullet in the back a probabilityanywhere on that side of the border. 

The aeroplane returned to earth and grounded near by. Stopping theengine Colonel Decies climbed out and swung himself into the rear seatof the camel saddle. Captain Digby-Soames sprang into the front oneand the camel lurched to its feet, and was driven to the mouth of thegully which the Captain had noted as running up to the scene of thetragedy. 

To and fro, in and out of the gully, winding, zig-zagging, oftentravelling a hundred yards to make a dozen, the sure-footed andwell-trained beast made its way upward. 

"Coming down will be joy, " observed the Colonel. "I'd sooner be on abroken aeroplane in a cyclone. "

"Better hop off here, I should think, " said Captain Digby-Soames anon. "We can lead him a good way yet, though. Case of divided we stand, united we fall. Let him fall by himself if he wants to, " and at thenext reasonably level spot the camel was made to kneel, that hisriders might descend. Slithering down from a standing camel is not asport to practise on a steep hillside, if indulged in at all. 

Another winding, scrambling climb and the head of the nullah wasreached. 

"Have to get the beast kneeling when we climb down to him with thecasualty, " opined the Colonel. "Better get him down here, I think. Doesn't seem any decent place farther on, " and the camel was broughtto an anchor and left to his own devices. 

"By Jove, the poor beggar _has_ come a purler, " said CaptainDigby-Soames, as the two bent over the apparently unconscious man. 

"Ever seen him at Kot Ghazi or Bimariabad?" inquired Colonel Decies. 

"No, " said the Captain, "never seen him anywhere. Why--have you?"

"Certainly seen him somewhere--trying to remember where. I thoughtperhaps it might have been at the flying-school or at one of themesses. Can't place him at all, but I'll swear I've met him. "

"Manoeuvres, perhaps, " suggested the other, "or 'board ship. "

"Extraordinary thing is that I feel I _ought_ to know him well. Something most familiar about the face. I'm afraid it's a bit too lateto--Broken ribs--fractured thigh--broken ankles--brokenarm--perforated lungs--not much good trying to get him down, I'mafraid. He might linger for days, though, if we decided to stand by, up here. A really first-class problem for solution--we're in luck, "mused Colonel Decies, making his rapid and skilful examination. "Yes, we must get him down, of course--after a bit of splinting. "

"And then the real 'problem' will commence, I suppose, " observedCaptain Digby-Soames. "You couldn't put him into my seat and fly himto Kot Ghazi while I dossed down with the camel and waited for you tocome for me. And it wouldn't do to camel him to that building whichlooks like a dak-bungalow. "

"No. I think you'll have to stand by while I fly to Kot Ghazi andbring the necessary things for a temporary job, and then return andtry to guide an ambulance waggon here. Oh, for an aeroplane-ambulance!This job brings it home to you pretty clearly, doesn't it? Or I mightfirst go and have a look at the alleged dak-bungalow and see if wecould possibly run him over there on a charpoy[30] or an improvisedcamel-stretcher. It'll be a ghastly job getting down. I don't knowthat you hadn't better stick to him up here while I go straight backfor proper splints and bandages and so forth, and bring another chaptoo ... Where the devil have I seen him before? I shall forget my ownname next. "

The Colonel pondered a moment. 

"Look here, " he decided. "This case is urgent enough to justify arisky experiment. He's been here a devil of a time and if he's not ina _pukka_ hospital within the next few hours it's all up with him. He's going to have the distinction of being the first casualty removedto hospital by flying-machine. I'll tie him on somewhere. We'll splinthim up as well as possible, and then make him into a blooming cocoonwith the cord, and whisk him away. "

"Pity we haven't a few planks, " observed Captain Digby-Soames. "Wecould make one big splint of his whole body and sling him, planks andall, underneath the aeroplane. "

"Well, you start splinting that right leg on to the left and stiffenthe knees with something (you'll probably be able to get a decentstick or two off that small tree), and shove the arm inside hisleather legging. We've two pairs of putties you can bandage with, andthere are _puggries_ on all three _topis_. Probably his gun'ssomewhere about, for another leg-splint, too. I'll get down to themachine for the cord and then I'll skirmish around for anything in thenature of poles or planks. I can get over to that hut and back beforeyou've done. It'll be the camelling that'll kill him. "

At the distant building the Colonel found an abandoned broken-wheeledbullock-cart, from which he looted the bottom-boards, which wereplanks six feet long, laid upon, but not fastened to, the framework ofthe body of the cart. From the compound of the place (an ancient andrarely-visited dak-bungalow, probably the most outlying and desertedin India) he procured a bamboo pole that had once supported a lamp, the long leg-rests of an old chair, and two or three sticks, more orless serviceable for his purpose. 

Returning to the camel, he ascended to where his passenger and pupilawaited him. Over his shoulder he bore the planks, pole and sticksthat the contemptuous but invaluable camel had borne to a point a fewyards below the scene of the tragedy. 

"Good egg, " observed the younger man. "We'll do him up in those like amummy. "

"Yes, " returned the Colonel, "then carry him to the oont and bind himalong one side of the saddle, and then lead the beast down. Easilysling him on to the machine, and there we are. Lucky we've got thecoil of cord. Fine demonstration for the Kot Ghazi fellers! Show thatthe thing can be done, even without the proper kind of 'plane andsurgical outfit. What luck we spotted him--or that he fell just in ourreturn track!"

"Doubtless he was born to that end, " observed the Captain, who was aptto get a little peevish when hungry and tired. 

And when the Army Aeroplane _Hawk_ returned from its "ground-scouringfor casualties" trip, lo, it bore, beneath and beside the pilot andpassenger, a real casualty slung in a kind of crude coffin-cradle ofplanks and poles, a casualty in whose recovery the Colonel took thevery deepest interest, for was he not a heaven-sent case, born to theend that he might be smashed to demonstrate the Colonel's theories?But no credit was given to the vultures, without whom the "casualty"would never have been found. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

FOUND. 

Colonel John Decies, I. M. S. (retired), visiting the Kot Ghazi StationHospital, whereof his friend and pupil, Captain Digby-Soames, wasCommandant, scanned the temperature chart of the unknown, thedesperately injured "case, " retrieved by his beloved flying-machine, who, judging by his utterances in delirium, appeared to be even worsedamaged in spirit than he was in body. 

"Very high again last night, " he observed to Miss Norah O'Neill of theQueen Alexandra Military Nursing Sisterhood. 

"Yes, and very violent, " replied Miss O'Neill. "I had to call twoorderlies and they could hardly hold him. He appeared to think he wasfighting a huge snake or fleeing from one. He also repeatedlyscreamed: 'It is under my foot! It is moving, moving, moving _out_. '"

"_Got it_, by God!" cried the Colonel, suddenly smiting his foreheadwith violence. "_Of course!_ Fool! Fool that I am! Merciful God inHeaven--_it's her boy_--and _I_ have saved him! _Her boy!_ And I'vebeen cudgelling my failing addled brains for months, wondering whereI had seen his face before. He's my godson, Sister, and I haven't seteyes on him for the last--nearly twenty years!"

Miss Norah O'Neill had never before seen an excited doctor in ahospital ward, but she now beheld one nearly beside himself withexcitement, joy, surprise, and incredulity. (It is sad to have torelate that she also heard one murmuring over and over again tohimself, "Well, I am damned". )

At last Colonel John Decies announced that the world was a tiny, smallplace and a very rum one, that it was just like _The Hawk_ to be themeans of saving _her_ boy of all people, and then took the patient'shand in his, and sat studying his face, in wondering, ponderingsilence. 

To Miss Norah O'Neill this seemed extraordinarily powerful affectionfor a mere _godson_, and one lost to sight for twenty years at that. Yet Colonel Decies was a bachelor and, no, the patient certainlyresembled him in no way whatsoever. The tiny new-born germ of aromance died at once in Miss O'Neill's romantic heart--and yet, hadshe but known, here was a romance such as her soul loved above allthings--the son of the adored dead mistress discovered _in extremis_, and saved, by the devout platonic lover, the life-long lover, andrevealed to him by the utterance of the pre-natally learnt words ofthe dead woman herself!

Yes--how many times through those awful days had Decies heard thatheart-rending cry! How cruelly the words had tortured him! And here, they were repeated twenty years on--for the identification of the sonby the friend!

That afternoon Colonel Decies dispatched a cablegram addressed to aMiss Gavestone, Monksmead, Southshire, England, and containing thewords, "Have found him, Kot Ghazi, bad accident, doing well, Decies, "and by the next mail Lucille, with Aunt Yvette and a maid, left PortSaid, having travelled overland to Brindisi and taken passage to Egyptby the _Osiris_ to overtake the liner that had left Tilbury severaldays before the cable reached Monksmead. And in Lucille's largesttrunk was an article the like of which is rarely to be found in thebaggage of a young lady--nothing more nor less than an ancient rapierof Italian pattern!... 

To Lucille, who knew her lover so well, it seemed that the sight andfeel of the worshipped Sword of his Ancestors must bring him comfort, self-respect, memories, thoughts of the joint youth and happiness ofhimself and her. 

She knew what the Sword had been to him, how he had felt a differentperson when he held its inspiring hilt, how it had moved him to thetelling of his wondrous dream and stories of its stirring past, how hehad revered and loved it ... Surely it must do him good to have it? Ifhe were stretched upon a bed of sickness, and it were hung where hecould see it, it _must_ help him. It would bring diversion of thought, cheer him, suggest bright memories--perhaps give him brave dreamsthat would usurp the place of bad ones. 

If he were well or convalescent it might be even more needful as atonic to self-respect, a reminder of high tradition, a message fromdead sires. Yes, surely it must do him good where she could not. Ifthere were any really insurmountable obstacle to their--their--union--the Sword could still be with him always, and sayunceasingly: "Do not be world-beaten, son of the de Warrennes andStukeleys. Do not despair. Do not be fate-conquered. Fight! Fight!Look upon me not as merely the symbol of struggle but as the actualSword of your actual Fathers. Fight Fate! Die fighting--but do notlive defeated"--but of course her hero Dam needed no suchexhortations. Still--the Sword must be a comfort, a pleasure, a hope, an inspiration, a symbol. When she brought it him he would understand. Swords were to sever, but _the_ Sword should be a link--a visible bondbetween them, and between them again and their common past. 

To her fellow-passengers Lucille was a puzzling enigma. What could bethe story of the beautiful, and obviously wealthy, girl with theanxious, preoccupied look, whose thoughts were always far away, whotook no interest in the pursuits and pastimes usual to her sex and ageon a long sea voyage; who gave no glance at the wares of local vendorsthat came aboard at Port Said and Aden; who occupied her leisure withno book, no writing, no conversation, no deck-games; and whoconstantly consulted her watch as though impatient of the slow flightof time or the slow progress of the ship?

Many leading questions were put to Auntie Yvette, but, dearly as shewould have liked to talk about her charge's romantic trouble, hertongue was tied and she dreaded to let slip any information that mightpossibly lead to a train of thought connecting Lucille, Dam, and theold half-forgotten scandal of the outcast from Monksmead andSandhurst. If her beloved nephew foolishly chose to hide his head inshame when there was no shame, it was not for those who loved him bestto say anything which might possibly lead to his discovery andidentification. 

While cordially polite to all men (including women) Lucille was foundto be surrounded by an impenetrable wall of what was either glass orice according to the nature of the investigator. Those who would fainextend relationship beyond that of merest ephemeral ship-boardacquaintanceship (and the inevitabilities of close, though temporary, daily contact), while admitting that her manner and manners werebeautiful, had to admit also that she was an extremely difficult youngperson "to get to know". A gilt-edged, bumptious young subalternknut, who commenced the voyage apoplectically full of self-admiration, self-confidence, and admiring wonder at his enormous attractiveness, importance, and value, finished the same in a ludicrously deflatedcondition--and a quiet civilian, to whom the cub had been shamefullyinsolent, was moved to present him with a little poem of hiscomposition commencing "There was a puppy caught a wasp, " which gavehim the transient though salutary gift of sight of himself as certainothers saw him.... 

Even the Great Mrs. "Justice" Spywell (her husband was a wee meekjoint-sessions-judge) was foiled in her diligent endeavours, and thosewho know the Great Mrs. "Justice" Spywell will appreciate thedefensive abilities of Lucille. To those poor souls, throughout theworld, who stand lorn and cold without the charmed and charming circleof Anglo-Indiandom, it may be explained that the Great Mrs. "Justice"Spywell was far too Great to be hampered by silly scruples ofdiffidence when on the track of information concerning the privateaffairs of lesser folk--which is to say other folk. 

When travelling abroad she is THE Judge's Wife; when staying at HillStations she is The JUDGE'S Wife, and when adorning her proper sphere, her native heath of Chota Pagalabad, she is The Judge's WIFE. As sheis the Senior Lady of all Chota Pagalabad she, of course, always (likeMary) Goes In First at the solemn and superior dinner parties of thatimportant place, and is feared, flattered, and fawned upon by theother ladies of the station, since she can socially put down themighty from their seat and exalt the humble and meek and them of lowdegree (though she would not be likely to touch the last-named with apair of tongs, socially speaking, of course). And yet, such is thisqueer world, the said lesser ladies of the famous mofussil station ofChota Pagalabad are, among themselves, agreed _nemine contradicente_that the Great Mrs. "Justice" Spywell is a vulgar old frump("country-bred to say the least of it"), and call her The First SevenSister. This curious and unsyntactically expressed epithet alludes tothe fact that she and six other "ladies" of like instincts meet dailyfor tea and scandal at the Gymkhana and, for three solid hours, pullto pieces the reputations of all and sundry their acquaintances, reminding the amused on-looker, by their voices, manner, andappearance, of those strange birds the _Sat Bai_ or Seven Sisters, whoin gangs of seven make day hideous in their neighbourhood ... 

"Are you going to India to be married, my dear child?" she askedLucille, before she knew her name. 

"I really don't know, " replied Lucille. 

"You are not actually engaged, then?"

"I really don't know. "

"Oh, of course, if you'd rather keep your own counsel, pray do so, "snapped the Great Lady, bridling. 

"Yes, " replied Lucille, and Mrs. Spywell informed her circle ofstereotypes that Lucille was a stupid chit without a word to say forherself, and an artful designing hussy who was probably an adventuressof the "fishing-fleet". 

To Auntie Yvette it appeared matter of marvel that earth and sky andsea were much as when she last passed that way. In quarter of acentury or so there appeared to be but little change in the Egyptianand Arabian deserts, in the mountains of the African and Arabiancoasts, of the Gulf of Suez, in the contours of the islands of the RedSea, and of Aden, whilst, in mid-ocean, there was absolutely noobservable difference between then and now. Wonderful indeed!

This theme, that of what was going on at Monksmead, and that of whatto do when Dam was recaptured, formed the bulk of her conversationwith her young companion. 

"What will you _do_, dear, when we _have_ found the poor darling boy?"she would ask. 

"Take him by the ear to the nearest church and marry him, " Lucillewould reply; or--"Stick to him like a leech for evermore, Auntie";or--"Marry him when he isn't looking, or while he's asleep, if he'sill--or by the scruff of his neck if he's well.... "

(What a pity the Great Mrs. "Justice" Spywell could not hear theseterrible and unmaidenly sentiments! An adventuress of the"fishing-fleet" in very truth!)

And with reproving smile the gentle spinster would reply:--

"My _dear!_ Suppose anyone overheard you, what _would_ they think?"Whereunto the naughty girl would answer:--

"The truth, Auntie--that I'm going to pursue some poor young man tohis doom. If Dam were a leper in the gutter, begging his bread, Iwould marry him in spite of himself--or share the gutter and breadin--er--guilty splendour. If he were a criminal in jail I would sit onthe doorstep till he came out, and do the same dreadful thing. I'mjust going to marry Dam at the first possible moment--like the WildWest 'shoot on sight' idea. I'm going to seize him and marry him andtake care of him for the rest of his life. If he never had anothergrief, ache, or pain in the whole of his life, he must have had morethan ten times his share already. Anyhow whether he'll marry me orwhether he won't--in his stupid quixotic ideas of his 'fitness' to doso--I'm never going to part from him again. "

And Auntie Yvette would endeavour to be less shocked than aright-minded spinster aunt should be at such wild un-Early-Victoriansentiments. 

 * * * * *

Come, this was a better sort of dream! This was better than dreamingof prison-cells, lunatic asylums, tortures by the Snake, lying smashedon rocks, being eaten alive by vultures, wandering for aeons in red-hot waterless deserts, and other horrors. However illusory andtantalizing, this was at least a glorious dream, a delirium towelcome, a wondrous change indeed--to seem to be holding the hand ofLucille while she gazed into his eyes and, from time to time, pressedher lips to his forehead. A good job most of the bandages were gone orshe could hardly have done that, even in a dream. And how wondrously_real!_ Her hand felt quite solid, there were tears trickling downher cheeks, tears that sometimes dropped on to his own hand with anincredible effect of actuality. It was even more vivid than hisSword-dream which was always so extraordinarily realistic and clear. And there, yes, by Jove, was dear old Auntie Yvette, smiling andweeping simultaneously. Such a dream was the next best thing toreality--save that it brought home to one too vividly what one hadlost. Pain of that kind was nevertheless a magnificent change from theother ghastly nightmares, of the wholly maleficent kind. This was akindly, helpful pain.... It is so rare to see the faces of ourbest-beloved in dreams ... Sleep was going to be something other thana procession of hideous nightmares then ... 

"I believe he knew me, Auntie, " whispered Lucille. "Oh, when willColonel Decies come back. I want him to be here when he opens his eyesagain. He would know at a glance whether he were in his right mind andknew me. "

"I am certain he did, dear, " replied Auntie Yvette. "I am positive hesmiled at you, and I believe he knew me too. "

"I _won't_ believe I have found him too late. It _couldn't_ be true, "wept the girl, overstrained and unstrung by long vigils, heart-sickwith hope deferred, as she turned to her companion. 

"Lucille! Is it real?" came a feeble whisper from the bed--andLucille, in the next moments, wondered if it be true that joy cannotkill ... 

 * * * * *

A few weeks later, Damocles de Warrenne sat on the verandah of theGrand Imperial Hotel Royal of Kot Ghazi, which has five rooms and fivemillion cockroaches, and stared blankly into the moonlit compound, beyond which stretched the bare rocky plain that was bounded on thenorth and west by mighty mountains, on the east by a mighty river, andon the south by the more mighty ocean, many hundreds of miles away. 

He had just parted from Auntie Yvette and Lucille--Lucille whose lastwords as she turned to go to her room had been:--

"Now, understand, Dammy, what you want now is a sea-voyage, asea-voyage to England and Monksmead. When we have got you absolutelyright, Mr. Wyllis shall show you as a specimen of the Perfect Man inHarley Street--and _then_, Dammy ... " and his burning kisses hadclosed her mouth. 

Was he scoundrel enough to do it? Had he deteriorated to such a depthof villainy? Could he let that noblest and finest flower of womanhoodmarry a--dangerous lunatic, a homicidal maniac who had nearly killedthe man who proved to be almost his greatest benefactor? Could he?Would the noble-hearted Decies frankly say that he was normal and hada right to marry? He would not, and no living man was better qualifiedto give an opinion on the case of Damocles de Warrenne than the manwho was a foster-father to him in childhood, and who brought him intothe world in such tragic circumstances. Decies had loved his mother, Lenore de Warrenne. Would he have married _her_ in suchcircumstances? Would he have lived under the same roof with herpermanently--knowing how overpowering would be the temptation to giveway and marry her, knowing how scandal would inevitably arise? Athousand times No. Was there _no_ gentlemanliness left in Damocles deWarrenne that he should even contemplate the doing of a deed at whichhis old comrades-in-arms, Bear, Burke, Jones, Little, Goate, Nemo andPeerson would stand aghast, would be ready to kick him out of a decentbarrack-room--and the poor demented creature called for a "boy, " andordered him to send, at once, for one Abdul Ghani who would, as usual, be found sleeping beside his camels in the market-place ... 

Anon the gentle Abdul came, received certain instructions, anddeparted smiling till his great yellow fangs gleamed in the moonlightbeneath the bristling moustache, cut back from the lips as that of arighteous Mussulman _shikarri_ and _oont-wallah_ should be. 

Damocles de Warrenne's brain became active with plots and plans forescape--escape from himself and the temptation which he must avoid byflight, since he felt he could not conquer it in fight. 

He must disappear. He must die--die in such a way that Lucille wouldnever suppose he had committed suicide. It was the only way to savehimself from so awful a crime and to save her from himself. 

He would start just before dawn on Abdul's shikar camel, be well awayfrom Kot Ghazi by daylight and reach the old deserted dak-bungalow, that no one ever used, by evening. There Abdul would come to him withhis _bhoja-oont_[31] bringing the usual supplies, and on receipt ofthem he would dismiss Abdul altogether and disappear again into thedesert, this time for good. Criminal lunatics and homicidal maniacsare better dead, especially when they are tempted beyond theirstrength to marry innocent, beautiful girls who do not understand theposition. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD. 

The dak-bungalow again at last! But how terribly dreary, depressing, and horrible it looked _now_--the hut that had once seemed a kind ofheaven on earth to the starving wanderer. Then, Lucille was thousandsof miles away (geographically, and millions of miles away inimagination). Now, she was but thirty miles away--and it was almostmore than human endurance could bear.... Should he turn back even now, ride straight to Kot Ghazi, fall at her feet and say: "I can struggleno longer. Come back to Monksmead--and let what will be, be. I have nomore courage. "

And go mad, one day, and kill her? Keep sane, and sully her fair name?On to the hovel. Rest for the night, and, at dawn, strike into thedesert and there let what will be, be. 

Making the camel kneel, Damocles de Warrenne removed its saddle, fastened its rein-cord tightly to a post, fed it, and then detachedthe saddle-bags that hung flatly on either side of the saddle frame, as well as a patent-leather sword-cover which contained a sword ofvery different pattern from that for which it had been made. 

Entering the hut, of which the doors and windows were bolted on theoutside, he flung open the shutters of the glassless windows, lit acandle, and prepared to eat a frugal meal. From the saddlebags he tookbread, eggs, chocolate, sardines, biscuits and apples. With a mixtureof permanganate of potash, tea and cold water from the well, if thepuddle at the bottom of a deep hole could be so termed, he made adrink that, while drinkable by one who has known worse, was unlikelyto cause an attack upon an enfeebled constitution, of cholera, enteric, dysentery or any other of India's specialities. What would henot have given for a clean whisky-and-soda in the place of thenauseating muck--but what should be the end of a man who, in hisposition, turned to _alcohol_ for help and comfort? "The last state ofthat man ... "

After striking a judicious balance between what he should eat fordinner and what he should reserve for breakfast, he fell to, atesparingly, lit his pipe, and gazed around the wretched room, of whichthe walls were blue-washed with a most offensive shade of blue, thebare floor was frankly dry mud and dust, the roof was bare cob-webbedthatch and rafter, and the furniture a rickety table, adangerous-looking cane-bottomed settee and a leg-rest arm-chair fromwhich some one had removed the leg-rests. Had some scoundrelly_oont-wallah_ pinched them for fuel? (No, Damocles, an ex-Colonel ofthe Indian Medical Service "pinched" them for splints. ) A mostdepressing human habitation even for the most cheerful and care-freeof souls, a terrible place for a man in a dangerous mental state ofunstable equilibrium and cruel agony.... Only thirty miles away--and acamel at the door. _Lucille_ still within a night's ride. Lucille andabsolute joy.... The desert and certain death--a death of which shemust be assured, that in time she might marry Ormonde Delorme or somesuch sound, fine man. Abdul must find his body--and it must be thebody not of an obvious suicide, but of a man who, lost in the desert, had evidently travelled in circles, trying to find his way to the huthe had left, on a shooting expedition. Yes--he knew all abouttravelling in circles--and what he had done in ignorance (as well asin agony and horror), he would now do intentionally and with grimpurpose. Hard on the poor camel!... Perhaps he could manage so that itwas set free in time to find its way back somehow. It would if it wereloosed within smell of water.... He must die fairly and squarely ofhunger and thirst--no blowing out of brains or throat-cutting, notrace of suicide; just lost, poor chap, and no more to be said.... Death of _thirst_--in that awful desert--_again_--No! God in Heaven hehad faced the actual pangs of it once, and escaped--he could _not_face it again--he wasn't strong enough ... And the unhappy man sprangto his feet to rush from the room and saddle-up the camel for--Lifeand Lucille--and then his eye fell on the Sword, the Sword of hisFathers, brought to him by Lucille, who had said, "Have it with youalways, Dearest. It can _talk_ to you, as even I can not.... "

He sat down and drew it from the incongruous modern case and from itsscabbard. Ha! What did it say but "_Honour_!" What was its message but"Do the right thing. Death is nothing--Honour is everything. Be worthyof your Name, your Traditions, your Ancestors--"

He would die. 

Let him die that Lucille's honour, Lucille's happiness, Lucille'swelfare, might live--and he kissed the hilt of the Sword as he had sooften done in childhood. Having removed boots, leggings and socks, helay down on the settee--innocent of bedding and pillows, pulled overhim the coat that had been rolled and strapped trooper-fashion behindthe saddle and fell asleep.... 

And dreamed that he was shut naked in a tiny cell with a giganticpython upon whose yard-long fangs he was about to be impaled and, asusual, awoke trembling and bathed in perspiration, with dry mouth andthrobbing head, sickness, and tingling extremities. 

The wind had got up and had blown out the candle which should havelasted till dawn!... 

As he lay shaking, terrified (uncertain as to whether he were a soulin torment or a human being still alive), and debating as to whetherhe could get off the couch, relight the candle, and close the windwardwindow, he heard a sound that caused his heart to miss a beat and hishair to rise on end. A strange, dry rustle merged in the sound ofpaper being dragged across the floor, and he knew that he _was_ shutin with a snake, shut up in a _blue room_, cut off from the matches onthe table, and doomed to lie and await the Death he dreaded more thanten thousand others--or, going mad, to rush upon that Death. 

_He was shut in with the SNAKE_. At last it had come for him in itsown concrete form and had him bound and gagged by fascination andfear--in the Dark, the awful cruel Dark. No more mere myrmidons. _TheSNAKE ITSELF_. 

He tried to scream and could not. He tried to strike out at animaginary serpent-head, huge as an elephant, that reared itself abovehim--and could not. 

He could not even draw his bare foot in under the overcoat. Andsteadily the paper dragged across the floor ... Was it approaching?Was it progressing round and round by the walls? Would the Snake findthe bed and climb on to it? Would it coil round his throat and gazewith-luminescent eyes into his, and torture him thus for hours erethrusting its fangs into his brain? Would it coil up and sleep uponhis body for hours before doing so, knowing that he could not move?Here were his Snake-Dreams realized, and in the actual flesh he layawake and conscious, and could neither move nor cry aloud!

In the Dark he lay bound and gagged, in a blue-walled room, and theSnake enveloped him with its Presence, and he could in no wise savehimself. 

Oh, God, why let a sentient creature suffer thus? He himself wouldhave shot any human being guilty of inflicting a tithe of the agony ona pariah dog. There could _be_ no God!... And then the beams of therising moon fell upon the blade of the Sword, making it shine like alamp, and, with a roar as of a charging lion, Damocles de Warrennesprang from the bed, seized it by the hilt, and was aware, without atremor, of a cobra that reared itself before him in the moonlight, swaying in the Dance of Death. 

With a mere flick of the sword he laid the reptile twitching on thefloor--and for a few minutes was madder with Joy than ever in his lifehe had been with Fear. 

_For Fear was gone. The World of Woe had fallen from his shoulders. The Snake was to him but a wretched reptile whose head he would crushere it bruised his heel. He was sane--he was safe--he was a Man again, and ere many days were past he would be the husband of Lucille and themaster of Monksmead. _

"Oh, God forgive me for a blind, rebellious worm, " he prayed. "Forgiveme, and strike not this cup from my lips. You would not punish theblasphemy of a madman? I _cannot_ pray in ordered forms, but I begforgiveness for my hasty cry 'There is on God' ... " and then pressedthe Sword to his lips--the Sword that, under God, had overthrown the_"Darling, I am cured! I have not the slightest fear of snakes. TheSword has saved me. I am a Man again. "_

He told her all as she sat laughing and sobbing for joy and the dyingsnake lay at their feet. 

In her heart of hearts Lucille determined that the wedding should takeplace immediately, so that if this were but a temporary respite, theresult of the flash of daring inspired by the Sword, she would havethe right to care for him for the rest of his life ... She would----

"Look!" she suddenly shrieked, and pointed to where, in the doorway, cutting them off from escape, was the mate of the cobra that laymangled before them. Had the injured reptile in some way called itsmate--or were they regular inhabitants of this deserted hut?

It was Lucille's first experience of cobras and she shuddered to seethe second--evidently comprehending, aggressive, vengeful--would itspring from there ... And the Sword lay on the bed, out of reach. 

Dam arose with a laugh, picked up his heavy boot as he did so, and, all in one swift movement, hurled it at the half-coiled swayingcreature, with the true aim of the first-class cricketer and trainedathlete; then, following his boot with a leap, he snatched at the tailof the coiling, thrashing reptile and "cracked" the snake as a cartercracks a whip--whereafter it dangled limp and dead from his hand!Lucille shrieked, paled, and sprang towards him. 

"Oh, Dam!" she cried, "how _could_ you!"

"Pooh, Kiddy, " he replied. "I'm going to invite the Harley Street coveto have a match at that--and I'm going to give a little exhibition ofit on the lawn at Monksmead--to all the good folk who witnessed mydisgrace.... What's a snake after all? It's _my_ turn now;" andLucille's heart was at rest and very thankful. This was not atemporary "cure". Oh, thank God for her inspiration anent the Sword... Thank God, thank God!... 

SEVEN YEARS AFTER. 

A beautiful woman, whose face is that of one whose soul is full ofpeace and joy, passes up the great staircase of the stately mansion ofMonksmead. Slowly, because her hand holds that of a chubby youth offive, a picture of sturdy health, strength and happiness. They passbeneath an ancient Sword and the boy wheels to the right, stiffenshimself, brings his heels together, and raises a fat little hand tohis forehead in solemn salute. The journey is continued without remarkuntil they reach the day nursery, a big, bright room of which astriking feature is the mural decoration in a conventional pattern ofentwined serpents, the number of brilliant pictures of snakes, framedand hung upon the walls, and two glass cases, the one containing apair of stuffed cobras and the other a finely-mounted specimen of aboa-constrictor (which had once been the pride of the heart of aFolkestone taxidermist). 

"Go away, Mitthis Beaton, " says the small boy to a white-haired butfresh-looking and comely old dame; "I'se not going to bed till Mummyhath tolded me about ve bwacelet again. "

"But I've told you a _thousand_ times, Dammykins, " says the lady. 

"Well, now tell me ten hundred times, " replies the young man coolly, and attempts to draw from the lady's wrist a huge and remarkablebracelet. 

This uncommon ornament consists of a great ruby-eyed gold snake whichcoils around the lady's arm and which is pierced through every coil bya platinum, diamond-hilted sword, an exact model of the Sword whichhangs on the staircase. 

"You tell _me_, Sonny, for a change, " suggests the lady. 

"Velly well, " replies the boy.... "Vere was once a Daddy and ahobberell gweat Thnake always bovvered him and followed him about andwouldn't let him gone to thleep and made him be ill like he had eatentoo much sweets, and the doctor came and gave him lotths of meddisnin. Then he had to wun away from the Thnake, but it wunned after him, andit wath jutht going to kill him when Mummy bwoughted the Thword andDaddy killed the Thnake all dead. And I am going to have the Thwordwhen I gwow up, but vere aren't any more bad Thnakes. They is all goodnow and Daddy likes vem and I likes vem. Amen. "

"_I_ never said _Amen_, when I told you the story, Sonny, " remarks thelady. 

"Well you can, now I have tolded you it, " permits her son. "It means_bus_[32]--all finished. Mitthis Beaton thaid tho. And when I am asbig as Daddy I'm going to be the Generwal of the Queenth Gweyth andthay '_Charge!_' and wear the Thword. "

Lucille de Warrenne here smothers conversation in the manner common toworshipping mothers whose prodigies make remarks indicative ofmarvellous precocity, in fact absolutely unique intelligence. 

EPILOGUE. 

Is it well, O my Soul, is it well?

 In silent aisles of sombre tone Where phantoms roam, thou dwell'st apart In drear alone. Where serpents coil and night-birds dart Thou liest prone, O Heart, my Heart, In dread unknown. O Soul of Night, surpassing fair, Guide this poor spirit through the air, And thus atone ... 

This sad Soul, searching for the light.... 

O Soul of Night, enstarréd bright, Shine over all. Enforce thy right to fend for us Extend thy power to fight for us Raise thou night's pall. Ensteep our minds in loveliness In all sweet hope and godliness Give guard o'er all ... This brave Soul striving in stern fight.... 

Thou soul of Night, thou spirit-elf, Rise up and bless. Help us to cleanse in holiness Show how to dress in saintliness Our weary selves, Expurge our deeds of earthiness Expunge desires of selfliness Rise up and bless ... This strong Soul dying in such plight.... 

 * * * * *

Night gently spreads her wings and fliesStar-laden, wide across the skies. My Soul, new strong, So late enstained with earthly dustSo long estranged in wander-lustGives praise and song, Strives to create in morning lightThe starry wonders of the nightIn praise and song ... 

This strong Soul praising in new right. It is well, O my Soul, it is well.... 

A. L. WREN. 

[Footnote 1: Store-room. ]

[Footnote 2: Footman and male "housemaid". ]

[Footnote 3: Gardener. ]

[Footnote 4: Groom. ]

[Footnote 5: Real, solid, permanent, proper, ripe, genuine. ]

[Footnote 6: Anna = a penny. ]

[Footnote 7: Strong, powerful chief. ]

[Footnote 8: Grass-man. ]

[Footnote 9: Carriage. ]

[Footnote 10: Bullock-carts. ]

[Footnote 11: A kind of starling. ]

[Footnote 12: Water-carriers. ]

[Footnote 13: Servant. ]

[Footnote 14: Camel-man. ]

[Footnote 15: Confined to barracks. ]

[Footnote 16: A famous Hussar regiment. ]

[Footnote 17: Teetotal. ]

[Footnote 18: Cigarettes. ]

[Footnote 19: When a non-commissioned officer does anything to risklosing his stripes he says he "chances his arm". ]

[Footnote 20: Permanent Military Police. ]

[Footnote 21: Summons before the Commanding Officer in Orderly Room. ]

[Footnote 22: Guard-room. ]

[Footnote 23: Infantry Regiments. ]

[Footnote 24: Cavalry Regiment. ]

[Footnote 25: Silent. ]

[Footnote 26: This actually happened some years ago atBangalore. --AUTHOR. ]

[Footnote 27: News, information. ]

[Footnote 28: Camel. ]

[Footnote 29: By means of its "Decies Horizontal Screw Stabilizer, "which enabled it to "hover" with only a very slight rise and fall. ]

[Footnote 30: Native bed-frame. ]

[Footnote 31: Baggage-camel. ]

[Footnote 32: Hindustani--enough, finished, complete. ]