THE WORLD FOR SALE

By Gilbert Parker

BOOK II

VIII. THE SULTANIX. MATTER AND MIND AND TWO MENX. FOR LUCKXI. THE SENTENCE OF THE PATRINXII. "LET THERE BE LIGHT"XIII. THE CHAIN OF THE PASTXIV. SUCH THINGS MAY NOT BEXV. THE WOMAN FROM WIND RIVERXVI. THE MAYOR FILLS AN OFFICEXVII. THE MONSEIGNEUR AND THE NOMADXVIII. THE BEACONSXIX. THE BEEPER OF THE BRIDGE

CHAPTER VIII

THE SULTAN

Ingolby's square head jerked forwards in stern inquiry and his eyesfastened those of Jowett, the horsedealer. "Take care what you'resaying, Jowett, " he said. "It's a penitentiary job, if it can be proved. Are you sure you got it right?"

Jowett had unusual shrewdness, some vanity and a humorous tongue. He wasa favourite in both towns, and had had the better of both in horse-dealing a score of times. 

That did not make him less popular. However, it was said he liked lowcompany, and it was true that though he had "money in the bank, " andowned a corner lot or so, he seemed to care little what his company was. His most constant companion was Fabian Osterhaut, who was the commonproperty of both towns, doing a little of everything for a living, frombill-posting to the solicitation of an insurance agent. 

For any casual work connected with public functions Osterhaut wasindispensable, and he would serve as a doctor's assistant and help cutoff a leg, be the majordomo for a Sunday-school picnic, or arrange asoiree at a meeting-house with equal impartiality. He had been known toattend a temperance meeting and a wake in the same evening. Yet no oneever questioned his bona fides, and if he had attended mass at Manitou inthe morning, joined a heathen dance in Tekewani's Reserve in theafternoon, and listened to the oleaginous Rev. Reuben Tripple in theevening, it would have been taken as a matter of course. 

He was at times profane and impecunious, and he had been shifted fromone boarding-house to another till at last, having exhausted credit inLebanon, he had found a room in the house of old Madame Thibadeau inManitou. She had taken him in because, in years gone by, he had nursedher only son through an attack of smallpox on the Siwash River, andsomehow Osterhaut had always paid his bills to her. He was curiouslyexact where she was concerned. If he had not enough for his week's boardand lodging, he borrowed it, chiefly of Jowett, who used him profitablyat times to pass the word about a horse, or bring news of a possibledeal. 

"It's a penitentiary job, Jowett, " Ingolby repeated. "I didn't thinkMarchand would be so mad as that. "

"Say, it's all straight enough, Chief, " answered Jowett, sucking hisunlighted cigar. "Osterhaut got wind of it--he's staying at old MotherThibadeau's, as you know. He moves round a lot, and he put me on to it. I took on the job at once. I got in with the French toughs over atManitou, at Barbazon's Tavern, and I gave them gin--we made it a ginnight. It struck their fancy--gin, all gin! 'Course there's nothing ingin different from any other spirit; but it fixed their minds, and tookaway suspicion. 

"I got drunk--oh, yes, of course, blind drunk, didn't I? Kissed me, halfa dozen of the Quebec boys did--said I was 'bully boy' and 'hell-fellow';said I was 'bon enfant'; and I said likewise in my best patois. Theyliked that. I've got a pretty good stock of monkey-French, and I letit go. They laughed till they cried at some of my mistakes, but theyweren't no mistakes, not on your life. It was all done a-purpose. They said I was the only man from Lebanon they wouldn't have cut up andboiled, and they was going to have the blood of the Lebanon lot beforethey'd done. I pretended to get mad, and I talked wild. I said thatLebanon would get them first, that Lebanon wouldn't wait, but'd have itout; and I took off my coat and staggered about--blind-fair blind boozy. I tripped over some fool's foot purposely, just beside a bench againstthe wall, and I come down on that bench hard. They laughed--Lord, howthey laughed! They didn't mind my givin' 'em fits--all except one ortwo. That was what I expected. The one or two was mad. They begunraging towards me, but there I was asleep on the bench-stony blind, and then they only spit fire a bit. Some one threw my coat over me. I hadn't any cash in the pockets, not much--I knew better than that--andI snored like a sow. Then it happened what I thought would happen. Theytalked. And here it is. They're going to have a strike in the mills, and you're to get a toss into the river. That's to be on Friday. Butthe other thing--well, they all cleared away but two. They were the twothat wanted to have it out with me. They stayed behind. There was Isnoring like a locomotive, but my ears open all right. 

"Well, they give the thing away. One of 'em had just come from FelixMarchand and he was full of it. What was it? Why, the second night ofthe strike your new bridge over the river was to be blown up. Marchand was to give these two toughs three hundred dollars each fordoing it. "

"Blown up with what?" Ingolby asked sharply. 

"Dynamite. "

"Where would they get it?"

"Some left from blasting below the mills. "

"All right! Go on. "

"There wasn't much more. Old Barbazon, the landlord, come in and theyquit talking about it; but they said enough to send 'em to gaol for tenyears. "

Ingolby blinked at Jowett reflectively, and his mouth gave a twist thatlent to his face an almost droll look. 

"What good would it do if they got ten years--or one year, if the bridgewas blown up? If they got skinned alive, and if Marchand was handed overto a barnful of hungry rats to be gnawed to death, it wouldn't help. I've heard and seen a lot of hellish things, but there's nothing to equalthat. To blow up the bridge--for what? To spite Lebanon, and to hurtme; to knock the spokes out of my wheel. He's the dregs, is Marchand. "

"I guess he's a shyster by nature, that fellow, " interposed Jowett. "He was boilin' hot when he was fifteen. He spoiled a girl I knew whenhe was twenty-two, not fourteen she was--Lil Sarnia; and he got her awaybefore--well, he got her away East; and she's in a dive in Winnipeg now. As nice a girl--as nice a little girl she was, and could ride any bronchothat ever bucked. What she saw in him--but there, she was only a child, just the mind of a child she had, and didn't understand. He'd ha' beentarred and feathered if it'd been known. But old Mick Sarnia said hush, for his wife's sake, and so we hushed, and Sarnia's wife doesn't knoweven now. I thought a lot of Lil, as much almost as if she'd been myown; and lots o' times, when I think of it, I sit up straight, and thething freezes me; and I want to get Marchand by the scruff of the neck. I got a horse, the worst that ever was--so bad I haven't had the heart toride him or sell him. He's so bad he makes me laugh. There's nothing hewon't do, from biting to bolting. Well, I'd like to tie Mr. FelixMarchand, Esquire, to his back, and let him loose on the prairie, andpray the Lord to save him if he thought fit. I fancy I know what theLord would do. And Lil Sarnia's only one. Since he come back from theStates, he's the limit, oh, the damnedest limit. He's a pest all round-and now, this!"

Ingolby kept blinking reflectively as Jowett talked. He was doing twothings at once with a facility quite his own. He was understanding allJowett was saying, but he was also weighing the whole situation. Hismind was gone fishing, figuratively speaking. He was essentially a manof action, but his action was the bullet of his mind; he had to be quietphysically when he was really thinking. Then he was as one in a dreamwhere all physical motion was mechanical, and his body was actingautomatically. His concentration, and therefore his abstraction, wasphenomenal. Jowett's reminiscences at a time so critical did not disturbhim--did not, indeed, seem to be irrelevant. It was as though FelixMarchand was being passed in review before him in a series of aspects. He nodded encouragement to Jowett to go on. 

"It's because Marchand hates you, Chief. The bump he got when youdropped him on the ground that day at Carillon hurts still. It's achronic inflammation. Closing them railway offices at Manitou, anddislodging the officials give him his first good chance. The feudbetween the towns is worse now than it's ever been. Make no mistake. There's a whole lot of toughs in Manitou. Then there's religion, andthere's race, and there's a want-to-stand-still and leave-me-alone-feeling. They don't want to get on. They don't want progress. Theywant to throw the slops out of the top windows into the street; they wanttheir cesspools at the front door; they think that everybody's got tohave smallpox some time or another, and the sooner they have it thebetter; they want to be bribed; and they think that if a vote's worthhaving it's worth paying for--and yet there's a bridge between these twotowns! A bridge--why, they're as far apart as the Yukon and Patagonia. "

"What'd buy Felix Marchand?" Ingolby asked meditatively. "What's hisprice?"

Jowett shifted with impatience. "Say, Chief, I don't know what you'rethinking about. Do you think you could make a deal with Felix Marchand?Not much. You've got the cinch on him. You could send him to quod, andI'd send him there as quick as lightning. I'd hang him, if I could, forwhat he done to Lil Sarnia. Years ago when he was a boy he offered me agold watch for a mare I had. The watch looked as right as could be--solid fourteen-carat, he said it was. He got my horse, and I got hiswatch. It wasn't any more gold than he was. It was filled--just platedwith nine-carat gold. It was worth about ten dollars. "

"What was the mare worth?" asked Ingolby, his mouth twisting again withquizzical meaning. 

"That mare--she was all right. "

"Yes, but what was the matter with her?"

"Oh, a spavin--she was all right when she got wound up--go like Dexter orMaud S. "

"But if you were buying her what would you have paid for her, Jowett?Come now, man to man, as they say. How much did you pay for her?"

"About what she was worth, Chief, within a dollar or two. "

"And what was she worth?"

"What I paid for her-ten dollars. "

Then the two men looked at each other full in the eyes, and Jowett threwback his head and laughed outright--laughed loud and hard. "Well, yougot me, Chief, right under the guard, " he observed. 

Ingolby did not laugh outright, but there was a bubble of humour in hiseyes. "What happened to the watch?" he asked. 

"I got rid of it. "

"In a horse-trade?"

"No, I got a town lot with it. "

"In Lebanon?"

"Well, sort of in Lebanon's back-yard. "

"What's the lot worth now?"

"About two thousand dollars!"

"Was it your first town lot?"

"The first lot of Mother Earth I ever owned. "

"Then you got a vote on it?"

"Yes, my first vote. "

"And the vote let you be a town-councillor?"

"It and my good looks. "

"Indirectly, therefore, you are a landowner, a citizen, a public servant, and an instrument of progress because of Felix Marchand. If you hadn'thad the watch you wouldn't have had that town lot. "

"Well, mebbe, not that lot. "

Suddenly Ingolby got to his feet and squared himself, and his face becamealight with purpose. His mind had come back from fishing, and he wasready now for action. His plans were formed. He was in for a fight, andhe had made up his mind how, with the new information to his hand, hewould develop his campaign further. 

"You didn't make a fuss about the watch, Jowett. You might have gone toFelix Marchand or to his father and proved him a liar, and got even thatway. You didn't; you got a corner lot with it. That's what I'm going todo. I can have Felix Marchand put in the jug, and make his old father, Hector Marchand, sick; but I like old Hector Marchand, and I think he'sbred as bad a pup as ever was. I'm going to try and do with thisbusiness as you did with that watch. I'm going to try and turn it toaccount and profit in the end. Felix Marchand's profiting by a mistakeof mine--a mistake in policy. It gives him his springboard; and there'senough dry grass in both towns to get a big blaze with a very littlematch. I know that things are seething. The Chief Constable keeps meposted as to what's going on here, and pretty fairly as to what's goingon in Manitou. The police in Manitou are straight enough. That's onecomfort. I've done Felix Marchand there. I guess that the ChiefConstable of Manitou and Monseigneur Lourde and old Mother Thibadeau areabout the only people that Marchand can't bribe. I see I've got to facea scrimmage before I can get what I want. "

"What you want you'll have, I bet, " was the admiring response. 

"I'm going to have a good try. I want these two towns to be one. That'll be good for your town lots, Jowett, " he added whimsically. "Ifmy policy is carried out, my town lot'll be worth a pocketful of gold-plated watches or a stud of spavined mares. " He chuckled to himself, andhis fingers reached towards a bell on the table, but he paused. "Whenwas it they said the strike would begin?" he asked. 

"Friday. "

"Did they say what hour?"

"Eleven in the morning. "

"Third of a day's work and a whole day's pay, " he mused. "Jowett, " headded, "I want you to have faith. I'm going to do Marchand, and I'mgoing to do him in a way that'll be best in the end. You can help asmuch if not more than anybody--you and Osterhaut. And if I succeed, it'll be worth your while. "

"I ain't followin' you because it's worth while, but because I want to, Chief. "

"I know; but a man--every man--likes the counters for the game. " Heturned to the table, opened a drawer, and took out a folded paper. Helooked it through carefully, wrote a name on it, and handed it to Jowett. 

"There's a hundred shares in the Northwest Railway, with my regards, Jowett. Some of the counters of the game. "

Jowett handed it back at once with a shake of the head. "I don't live inManitou, " he said. "I'm almost white, Chief. I've never made a dealwith you, and don't want to. I'm your man for the fun of it, and becauseI'd give my life to have your head on my shoulders for one year. "

"I'd feel better if you'd take the shares, Jowett. You've helped me, and I can't let you do it for nothing. "

"Then I can't do it at all. I'm discharged. " Suddenly, however, ahumorous, eager look shot into Jowett's face. "Will you toss for it?"he blurted out. "Certainly, if you like, " was the reply. 

"Heads I win, tails it's yours?"

"Good. "

Ingolby took a silver dollar from his pocket, and tossed. It came downtails. Ingolby had won. 

"My corner lot against double the shares?" Jowett asked sharply, hisface flushed with eager pleasure. He was a born gambler. 

"As you like, " answered Ingolby with a smile. Ingolby tossed, and theystooped over to look at the dollar on the floor. It had come up heads. "You win, " said Ingolby, and turning to the table, took out anotherhundred shares. In a moment they were handed over. 

"You're a wonder, Jowett, " he said. "You risked a lot of money. Are yousatisfied?"

"You bet, Chief. I come by these shares honestly now. "

He picked up the silver dollar from the floor, and was about to put it inhis pocket. 

"Wait--that's my dollar, " said Ingolby. 

"By gracious, so it is!" said Jowett, and handed it over reluctantly. 

Ingolby pocketed it with satisfaction. 

Neither dwelt on the humour of the situation. They were only concernedfor the rules of the game, and both were gamesters in their way. 

After a few brief instructions to Jowett, and a message for Osterhautconcerning a suit of workman's clothes, Ingolby left his offices andwalked down the main street of the town with his normal rapidity, responding cheerfully to the passers-by, but not encouraging evidentdesire for talk with him. Men half-started forward to him, but he heldthem back with a restraining eye. They knew his ways. He was responsivein a brusque, inquisitive, but good-humoured and sometimes very drollway; but there were times when men said to themselves that he was to beleft alone; and he was so much master of the place that, as Osterhaut andJowett frequently remarked, "What he says goes!" It went even with thosewhom he had passed in the race of power. 

He had had his struggles to be understood in his first days in Lebanon. He had fought intrigue and even treachery, had defeated groups which werethe forces at work before he came to Lebanon, and had compelled thesubmission of others. All these had vowed to "get back at him, " but whenit became a question of Lebanon against Manitou they swung over to hisside and acknowledged him as leader. The physical collision between therougher elements of the two towns had brought matters to a head, andnearly every man in Lebanon felt that his honour was at stake, and wasready "to have it out with Manitou. "

As he walked along the main street after his interview with Jowett, hiseyes wandered over the buildings rising everywhere; and his mind reviewedas in a picture the same thinly inhabited street five years ago when hefirst came. Now farmers' wagons clacked and rumbled through the prairiedust, small herds of cattle jerked and shuffled their way to theslaughter-yard, or out to the open prairie, and caravans of settlers withtheir effects moved sturdily forward to the trails which led to a newlife beckoning from three points of the compass. That point which didnot beckon was behind them. Flaxen-haired Swedes and Norwegians; square-jawed, round-headed North Germans; square-shouldered, loose-jointedRussians with heavy contemplative eyes and long hair, looked curiously ateach other and nodded understandingly. Jostling them all, with a jeerand an oblique joke here and there, and crude chaff on each other andeverybody, the settler from the United States asserted himself. Heinvariably obtruded himself, with quizzical inquiry, half contempt andhalf respect, on the young Englishman, who gazed round with phlegm uponhis fellow adventurers, and made up to the sandy-faced Scot or thecheerful Irishman with his hat on the back of his head, who showed in thethrong here and there. This was one of the days when the emigrant andsettlers' trains arrived both from the East and from "the States, " andFront Street in Lebanon had, from early morning, been alive with thechildren of hope and adventure. 

With hands plunged deep in the capacious pockets of his grey jacket, Ingolby walked on, seeing everything; yet with his mind occupiedintently, too, on the trouble which must be faced before Lebanon andManitou would be the reciprocating engines of his policy. Coming to aspot where a great gap of vacant land showed in the street-land which hehad bought for the new offices of his railway combine--he stood andlooked at it abstractedly. Beyond it, a few blocks away, was theSagalac, and beyond the Sagalac was Manitou, and a little way to theright was the bridge which was the symbol of his policy. His eyes gazedalmost unconsciously on the people and the horses and wagons coming andgoing upon the bridge. Then they were lifted to the tall chimneys risingat two or three points on the outskirts of Manitou. 

"They don't know a good thing when they get it, " he said to himself. "A strike--why, wages are double what they are in Quebec, where most of'em come from! Marchand--"

A hand touched his arm. "Have you got a minute to spare, kind sir?"a voice asked. 

Ingolby turned and saw Nathan Rockwell, the doctor. "Ah, Rockwell, " heresponded cheerfully, "two minutes and a half, if you like! What is it?"

The Boss Doctor, as he was familiarly called by every one, to identifyhim from the newer importations of medical men, drew from his pocket anewspaper. 

"There's an infernal lie here about me, " he replied. "They say that I--"

He proceeded to explain the misstatement, as Ingolby studied the papercarefully, for Rockwell was a man worth any amount of friendship. 

"It's a lie, of course, " Ingolby said firmly as he finished theparagraph. "Well?"

"Well, I've got to deal with it. "

"You mean you're going to deny it in the papers?"

"Exactly. "

"I wouldn't, Rockwell. "

"You wouldn't?"

"No. You never can really overtake a newspaper lie. Lots of the peoplewho read the lie don't see the denial. Your truth doesn't overtake thelie--it's a scarlet runner. "

"I don't see that. When you're lied about, when a lie like that--"

"You can't overtake it, Boss. It's no use. It's sensational, it runstoo fast. Truth's slow-footed. When a newspaper tells a lie about you, don't try to overtake it, tell another. "

He blinked with quizzical good-humour. Rockwell could not resist theaudacity. "I don't believe you'd do it just the same, " he retorteddecisively, and laughing. 

"I don't try the overtaking anyhow; I get something spectacular in my ownfavour to counteract the newspaper lie. "

"In what way?"

"For instance, if they said I couldn't ride a moke at a villagesteeplechase, I'd at once publish the fact that, with a jack-knife, I'dkilled two pumas that were after me. Both things would be lies, but theone would neutralize the other. If I said I could ride a moke, nobodywould see it, and if it were seen it wouldn't make any impression; but tosay I killed two mountain-lions with a jack-knife on the edge of aprecipice, with the sun standing still to look at it, is as good as theoriginal lie and better; and I score. My reputation increases. "

Nathan Rockwell's equilibrium was restored. "You're certainly a wonder, "he declared. "That's why you've succeeded. "

"Have I succeeded?"

"Thirty-three-and what you are!"

"What am I?"

"Pretty well master here. "

"Rockwell, that'd do me a lot of harm if it was published. Don't say itagain. This is a democratic country. They'd kick at my being calledmaster of anything, and I'd have to tell a lie to counteract it. "

"But it's the truth, and it hasn't to be overtaken. "

A grim look came into Ingolby's face. "I'd like to be master-boss oflife and death, holder of the sword and balances, the Sultan, here justfor one week. I'd change some things. I'd gag some people that aredoing terrible harm. It's a real bad business. The scratch-your-faceperiod is over, and we're in the cut-your-throat epoch. "

Rockwell nodded assent, opened the paper again, and pointed to a column. "I expect you haven't seen that. To my mind, in the present state ofthings, it's dynamite. "

Ingolby read the column hastily. It was the report of a sermon deliveredthe evening before by the Rev. Reuben Tripple, the evangelical ministerof Lebanon. It was a paean of the Scriptures accompanied by a crazycharge that the Roman Church forbade the reading of the Bible. It hada tirade also about the Scarlet Woman and Popish idolatry. 

Ingolby made a savage gesture. "The insatiable Christian beast!" hegrowled in anger. "There's no telling what this may do. You know whatthose fellows are over in Manitou. The place is full of them going tothe woods, besides the toughs at the mills and in the taverns. They'renot psalm-singing, and they don't keep the Ten Commandments, but they'resavagely fanatical, and--"

"And there's the funeral of an Orangeman tomorrow. The Orange Lodgeattends in regalia. "

Ingolby started and looked at the paper again. "The sneaking, prayingliar, " he said, his jaw setting grimly. "This thing's a call to riot. There's an element in Lebanon as well that'd rather fight than eat. It'sthe kind of lie that--"

"That you can't overtake, " said the Boss Doctor appositely; "and I don'tknow that even you can tell another that'll neutralize it. Yourprescription won't work here. "

An acknowledging smile played at Ingolby's mouth. "We've got to have atry. We've got to draw off the bull with a red rag somehow. "

"I don't see how myself. That Orange funeral will bring a row on to us. I can just see the toughs at Manitou when they read this stuff, and knowabout that funeral. "

"It's announced?"

"Yes, here's an invitation in the Budget to Orangemen to attend thefuneral of a brother sometime of the banks of the Boyne!"

"Who's the Master of the Lodge?" asked Ingolby. Rockwell told him, urging at the same time that he see the Chief Constable as well, andMonseigneur Lourde at Manitou. 

"That's exactly what I mean to do--with a number of other things. Between ourselves, Rockwell, I'd have plenty of lint and bandages readyfor emergencies if I were you. "

"I'll see to it. That collision the other day was serious enough, andit's gradually becoming a vendetta. Last night one of the Lebanonchampions lost his nose. "

"His nose--how?"

"A French river-driver bit a third of it off. "

Ingolby made a gesture of disgust. "And this is the twentieth century!"

They had moved along the street until they reached a barber-shop, fromwhich proceeded the sound of a violin. "I'm going in here, " Ingolbysaid. "I've got some business with Berry, the barber. You'll keep meposted as to anything important?"

"You don't need to say it. Shall I see the Master of the Orange Lodge orthe Chief Constable for you?" Ingolby thought for a minute. "No, I'lltackle them myself, but you get in touch with Monseigneur Lourde. He'sgrasped the situation, and though he'd like to have Tripple boiled inoil, he doesn't want broken heads and bloodshed. "

"And Tripple?"

"I'll deal with him at once. I've got a hold on him. I never wanted touse it, but I will now without compunction. I have the means in mypocket. They've been there for three days, waiting for the chance. "

"It doesn't look like war, does it?" said Rockwell, looking up thestreet and out towards the prairie where the day bloomed like a flower. Blue above--a deep, joyous blue, against which a white cloud rested orslowly travelled westward; a sky down whose vast cerulean bowl flocks ofwild geese sailed, white and grey and black, while the woods across theSagalac were glowing with a hundred colours, giving tender magnificenceto the scene. The busy eagerness of a pioneer life was still a quiet, orderly thing, so immense was the theatre for effort and movement. Inthese wide streets, almost as wide as a London square, there was room tomove; nothing seemed huddled, pushing, or inconvenient. Even thedisorder of building lost its ugly crudity in the space and the sunlight. 

"The only time I get frightened in life is when things look like that, "Ingolby answered. "I go round with a life-preserver on me when it seemsas if 'all's right with the world. '"

The violin inside the barber-shop kept scraping out its cheap music--acoon-song of the day. 

"Old Berry hasn't much business this morning, " remarked Rockwell. "He's in keeping with this surface peace. "

"Old Berry never misses anything. What we're thinking, he's thinking. I go fishing when I'm in trouble; Berry plays his fiddle. He's aphilosopher and a friend. "

"You don't make friends as other people do. "

"I make friends of all kinds. I don't know why, but I've always had akind of kinship with the roughs, the no-accounts, and the rogues. "

"As well as the others--I hope I don't intrude!"

Ingolby laughed. "You? Oh, I wish all the others were like you. It'sthe highly respectable members of the community I've always had towatch. "

The fiddle-song came squeaking out upon the sunny atmosphere. It arrested the attention of a man on the other side of the street--a stranger in strange Lebanon. He wore a suit of Western clothes as amilitary man wears mufti, if not awkwardly, yet with a manner not whollynatural--the coat too tight across the chest, too short in the body. However, the man was handsome and unusual in his leopard way, with hisbrown curling hair and well-cared-for moustache. It was Jethro Fawe. 

Attracted by the sound of the violin, he stayed his steps and smiledscornfully. Then his look fell on the two figures at the door of thebarber-shop, and his eyes flashed. 

Here was the man he wished to see--Max Ingolby, the man who stood betweenhim and his Romany lass. Here was a chance of speaking face to face withthe man who was robbing him. What he should do when they met must beaccording to circumstances. That did not matter. There was the impulsestorming in his brain, and it drove him across the street as the BossDoctor walked away, and Ingolby entered the shop. All Jethro realizedwas that the man who stood in his way, the big, rich, masterful Gorgiowas there. 

He entered the shop after Ingolby, and stood for an instant unseen. Theold negro barber with his curly white head, slave-black face, and large, shrewd, meditative eyes was standing in a corner with a violin under hischin, his cheek lovingly resting against it, as he drew his bow throughthe last bars of the melody. He had smiled in welcome as Ingolbyentered, instantly rising from his stool, but continuing to play. Hewould not have stopped in the middle of a tune for an emperor, and he putIngolby higher than an emperor. For one who had been born a slave, andhad still the scars of the overseer's whip on his back, he was veryindependent. He cut everybody's hair as he wanted to cut it, trimmedeach beard as he wished to trim it, regardless of its owner's wishes. If there was dissent, then his customer need not come again, that wasall. There were other barbers in the place, but Berry was the masterbarber. To have your head massaged by him was never to be forgotten, especially if you found your hat too small for your head in the morning. Also he singed the hair with a skill and care, which had filled many athinly covered scalp with luxuriant growth, and his hair-tonic, known as"Smilax, " gave a pleasant odour to every meeting-house or church orpublic hall where the people gathered. Berry was an institution even inthis new Western town. He kept his place and he forced the white man, whoever he was, to keep his place. 

When he saw Jethro Fawe enter the shop he did not stop playing, but hiseyes searched the newcomer. Following his glance, Ingolby turned roundand saw the Romany. His first impression was one of admiration, butsuspicion was quickly added. He was a good judge of men, and there wassomething secluded about the man which repelled him. Yet he wasinterested. The dark face had a striking racial peculiarity. 

The music died away, and old Berry lowered the fiddle from his chin andgave his attention to the Romany. 

"Yeth-'ir?" he said questioningly. 

For an instant Jethro was confused. When he entered the shop he had notmade up his mind what he should do. It had been mere impulse and thefever of his brain. As old Berry spoke, however, his course opened out. 

"I heard. I am a stranger. My fiddle is not here. My fingers itch forthe cat-gut. Eh?"

The look in old Berry's face softened a little. His instinct had beenagainst his visitor, and he had been prepared to send him to anothershop-besides, not every day could he talk to the greatest man in theWest. 

"If you can play, there it is, " he said after a slight pause, and handedthe fiddle over. 

It was true that Jethro Fawe loved the fiddle. He had played it in manylands. Twice, in order to get inside the palace of a monarch for apurpose--once in Berlin and once in London--he had played the secondviolin in a Tzigany orchestra. He turned the fiddle slowly round, looking at it with mechanical intentness. Through the passion of emotionthe sure sense of the musician was burning. His fingers smoothed theoval brown breast of the instrument with affection. His eyes found joyin the colour of the wood, which had all the graded, merging tints ofAutumn leaves. 

"It is old--and strange, " he said, his eyes going from Berry to Ingolbyand back again with a veiled look, as though he had drawn down blindsbefore his inmost thoughts. "It was not made by a professional. "

"It was made in the cotton-field by a slave, " observed old Berry sharply, yet with a content which overrode antipathy to his visitor. 

Jethro put the fiddle to his chin, and drew the bow twice or thricesweepingly across the strings. Such a sound had never come from Berry'sviolin before. It was the touch of a born musician who certainly hadskill, but who had infinitely more of musical passion. 

"Made by a slave in the cotton-fields!" Jethro said with a veiled look, and as though he was thinking of something else: "'Dordi', I'd like tomeet a slave like that!"

At the Romany exclamation Ingolby swept the man with a searching look. He had heard the Romany wife of Ruliff Zaphe use the word many years agowhen he and Charley Long visited the big white house on the hill. Wasthe man a Romany, and, if so, what was he doing here? Had it anything todo with Gabriel Druse and his daughter? But no--what was there strangein the man being a Romany and playing the fiddle? Here and there in theWest during the last two years, he had seen what he took to be Romanyfaces. He looked to see the effect of the stranger's remark on oldBerry. 

"I was a slave, and I was like that. My father made that fiddle in thecotton-fields of Georgia, " the aged barber said. 

The son of a race which for centuries had never known country or flag orany habitat, whose freedom was the soul of its existence, if it had asoul; a freedom defying all the usual laws of social order--the son ofthat race looked at the negro barber with something akin to awe. Herewas a man who had lived a life which was the staring antithesis of hisown, under the whip as a boy, confined to compounds; whose vision wasconstricted to the limits of an estate; who was at the will of one man, to be sold and trafficked with like a barrel of herrings, to be worked atanother's will--and at no price! This was beyond the understanding ofJethro Fawe. But awe has the outward look of respect, and old Berry whohad his own form of vanity, saw that he had had a rare effect on thefellow, who evidently knew all about fiddles. Certainly that was awonderful sound he had produced from his own cotton-field fiddle. 

In the pause Ingolby said to Jethro Fawe, "Play something, won't you?I've got business here with Mr. Berry, but five minutes of good musicwon't matter. We'd like to hear him play--wouldn't we, Berry?"

The old man nodded assent. "There's plenty of music in the thing, " hesaid, "and a lot could come out in five minutes, if the right man playedit. "

His words were almost like a challenge, and it reached to Jethro'sinnermost nature. He would show this Gorgio robber what a Romany coulddo, and do as easily as the birds sing. The Gorgio was a money-master, they said, but he would find that a Romany was a master, too, in his ownway. He thought of one of the first pieces he had ever heard, a rhapsodywhich had grown and grown, since it was first improvised by a Tzigany inHungary. He had once played it to an English lady at the Amphitryon Clubin London, and she had swooned in the arms of her husband's best friend. He had seen men and women avert their heads when he had played it, daringnot to look into each other's eyes. He would play it now--a little ofit. He would play it to her--to the girl who had set him free in theSagalac woods, to the ravishing deserter from her people, to the onlywoman who had told him the truth in all his life, and who insulated hismagnetism as a ground-wire insulates lightning. He would summon her hereby his imagination, and tell her to note how his soul had caught themusic of the spheres. He would surround himself with an atmosphere ofhis own. His rage, his love, and his malignant hate, his tenderness andhis lust should fill the barber's shop with a flood which would drown theGorgio raider. He laughed to himself, almost unconsciously. Thensuddenly he leaned his cheek to the instrument and drew the bow acrossthe strings with a savage softness. The old cottonfield fiddle cried outwith a thrilling, exquisite pain, but muffled, as a hand at the lipsturns agony into a tender moan. Some one--some spirit--in the fiddlewas calling for its own. 

Five minutes later-a five minutes in which people gathered at thedoor of the shop, and heads were thrust inside in ravished wonder--thepalpitating Romany lowered the fiddle from his chin, and stood for aminute looking into space, as though he saw a vision. 

He was roused by old Berry's voice. "Das a fiddle I wouldn't sell for at'ousand dollars. If I could play like dat I wouldn't sell it for tent'ousand. You kin play a fiddle to make it worth a lot--you. "

The Romany handed back the instrument. "It's got something inside itthat makes it better than it is. It's not a good fiddle, but it hassomething--ah, man alive, it has something!" It was as though he wastalking to himself. 

Berry made a quick, eager gesture. "It's got the cotton-fields and theslave days in it. It's got the whip and the stocks in it; it's got thecry of the old man that'd never see his children ag'in. That's what thefiddle's got in it. "

Suddenly, in an apparent outburst of anger, he swept down on the frontdoor and drove the gathering crowd away. 

"Dis is a barber-shop, " he said with an angry wave of his hand; "it ain'ta circuse. "

One man protested. "I want a shave, " he said. He tried to come inside, but was driven back. 

"I ain't got a razor that'd cut the bristle off your face, " the oldbarber declared peremptorily; "and, if I had, it wouldn't be busy on you. I got two customers, and that's all I'm going to take befo' I have mydinner. So you git away. There ain't goin' to be no more music. "

The crowd drew off, for none of them cared to offend this autocrat of theshears and razor. 

Ingolby had listened to the music with a sense of being swayed by a windwhich blew from all quarters of the compass at once. He loved music;it acted as a clearing-house to his mind; and he played the piano himselfwith the enthusiasm of a wilful amateur, who took liberties with everypiece he essayed. There was something in this fellow's playing which thegreat masters, such as Paganini, must have had. As the music ceased, hedid not speak, but remained leaning against the great red-plush barber'schair looking reflectively at the Romany. Berry, however, said to thestill absorbed musician: "Where did you learn to play?"

The Romany started, and a flush crossed his face. "Everywhere, " heanswered sullenly. 

"You've got the thing Sarasate had, " Ingolby observed. "I only heard himplay but once--in London years ago: but there's the same something in it. I bought a fiddle of Sarasate. I've got it now. "

"Here in Lebanon?" The eyes of the Romany were burning. An idea hadjust come into his brain. Was it through his fiddling that he was goingto find a way to deal with this Gorgio, who had come between him and hisown?

"Only a week ago it came, " Ingolby replied. "They actually charged meCustoms duty on it. I'd seen it advertised, and I made an offer and gotit at last. "

"You have it here--at your house here?" asked old Berry in surprise. 

"It's the only place I've got. Did you think I'd put it in a museum?I can't play it, but there it is for any one that can play. How wouldyou like to try it?" he added to Jethro in a friendly tone. "I'd give agood deal to see it under your chin for an hour. Anyhow, I'd like toshow it to you. Will you come?"

It was like him to bring matters to a head so quickly. 

The Romany's eyes glistened. "To play the Sarasate alone to you?" heasked. 

"That's it-at nine o'clock to-night, if you can. "

"I will come--yes, I will come, " Jethro answered, the lids drooping overhis eyes in which were the shadows of the first murder of the createdworld. 

"Here is my address, then. " Ingolby wrote something on his visiting-card. "My man'll let you in, if you show that. Well, good-bye. "

The Romany took the card, and turned to leave. He had been dismissed bythe swaggering Gorgio, as though he was a servant, and he had not evenbeen asked his name, of so little account was he! He could come and playon the Sarasate to the masterful Gorgio at the hour which the masterfulGorgio fixed--think of that! He could be--a servant to the pleasure ofthe man who was stealing from him the wife sealed to him in the Roumeliancountry. But perhaps it was all for the best--yes, he would make it allfor the best! As he left the shop, however, and passed down the streethis mind remained in the barber-shop. He saw in imagination themasterful Gorgio in the red-plush chair, and the negro barber bendingover him, with black fingers holding the Gorgio's chin, and an open razorin the right hand lightly grasped. A flash of malicious desire came intohis eyes as the vision shaped itself in his imagination, and he sawhimself, instead of the negro barber, holding the Gorgio chin and lookingdown at the Gorgio throat with the razor, not lightly, but firmly graspedin his right hand. How was it that more throats were not cut in thatway? How was it that while the scissors passed through the beard of aman's face the points did not suddenly slip up and stab the light fromhelpless eyes? How was it that men did not use their chances? He wentlightly down the street, absorbed in a vision which was not like thereality; but it was evidence that his visit to Max Ingolby's house wasnot the visit of a virtuoso alone, but of an evil spirit. 

As the Romany disappeared, Max Ingolby had his hand on the old barber'sshoulder. "I want one of the wigs you made for that theatricalperformance of the Mounted Police, Berry, " he said. "Never mind whatit's for. I want it at once--one with the long hair of a French-Canadiancoureur-de-bois. Have you got one?"

"Suh, I'll send it round-no, I'll bring it round as I come from dinner. Want the clothes, too?"

"No. I'm arranging for them with Osterhaut. I've sent word by Jowett. "

"You want me to know what it's for?"

"You can know anything I know--almost, Berry. You're a friend of theright sort, and I can trust you. "

"Yeth-'ir, I bin some use to you, onct or twict, I guess. "

"You'll have a chance to be of use more than ever presently. "

"Suh, there's gain' to be a bust-up, but I know who's comin' out on thetop. That Felix Marchand and his roughs can't down you. I hear and seea lot, and there's two or three things I was goin' to put befo' you;yeth-'ir. "

He unloaded his secret information to his friend, and was rewarded byIngolby suddenly shaking his hand warmly. 

"That's the line, " Ingolby said decisively. "When do you go over toManitou again to cut old Hector Marchand's hair? Soon?"

"To-day is his day--this evening, " was the reply. 

"Good. You wanted to know what the wig and the habitant's clothes arefor, Berry--well, for me to wear in Manitou. In disguise I'm going theretonight among them all, among the roughs and toughs. I want to find outthings for myself. I can speak French as good as most of 'em, and I canchew tobacco and swear with the best. "

"You suhly are a wonder, " said the old man admiringly. "How you fin' thetime I got no idee. "

"Everything in its place, Berry, and everything in its time. I've got alot to do to-day, but it's in hand, and I don't have to fuss. You'll notforget the wig--you'll bring it round yourself?"

"Suh. No snoopin' into the parcel then. But if you go to Manitouto-night, how can you have that fiddler?"

"He comes at nine o'clock. I'll go to Manitou later. Everything in itsown time. "

He was about to leave the shop when some one came bustling in. Berry wasbetween Ingolby and the door, and for an instant he did not see who itwas. Presently he heard an unctuous voice: "Ah, good day, good day, Mr. Berry. I want to have my hair cut, if you please, " it said. 

Ingolby smiled. The luck was with him to-day so far. The voice belongedto the Rev. Reuben Tripple, and he would be saved a journey to the manse. Accidental meetings were better than planned interviews. Old Berry'sgrizzled beard was bristling with repugnance, and he was about to refuseMr. Tripple the hospitality of the shears when Ingolby said: "You won'tmind my having a word with Mr. Tripple first, will you, Berry? May weuse your back parlour?"

A significant look from Ingolby's eyes gave Berry his cue. 

"Suh, Mr. Ingolby. I'm proud. " He opened the door of another room. 

Mr. Tripple had not seen Ingolby when he entered, and he recognized himnow with a little shock of surprise. There was no reason why he shouldnot care to meet the Master Man, but he always had an uncanny feelingwhen his eye met that of Ingolby. His apprehension had no foundation inany knowledge, yet he had felt that Ingolby had no love for him, and thisdisturbed the egregious vanity of a narrow nature. His slouching, corpulent figure made an effort to resist the gesture with which Ingolbydrew him to the door, but his will succumbed, and he shuffled importantlyinto the other room. 

Ingolby shut the door quietly behind him, and motioned the minister to achair beside the table. Tripple sank down, mechanically smiling, placedhis hat on the floor, and rested his hands on the table. Ingolby couldnot help but notice how coarse the hands were--with fingers suddenlyending as though they had been cut off, and puffy, yellowish skin thatsuggested fat foods, or worse. 

Ingolby came to grips at once. "You preached a sermon last night whichno doubt was meant to do good, but will only do harm, " he said abruptly. 

The flabby minister flushed, and then made an effort to hold his own. 

"I speak as I am moved, " he said, puffing out his lips. "You spoke onthis occasion before you were moved--just a little while before, "answered Ingolby grimly. "The speaking was last night, the moving comestoday. "

"I don't get your meaning, " was the thick rejoinder. The man had afeeling that there was some real danger ahead. 

"You preached a sermon last night which might bring riot and bloodshedbetween these two towns, though you knew the mess that's brewing. "

"My conscience is my own. I am responsible to my Lord for words which Ispeak in His name, not to you. "

"Your conscience belongs to yourself, but your acts belong to all of us. If there is trouble at the Orange funeral to-morrow it will be yourfault. The blame will lie at your door. "

"The sword of the Spirit--"

"Oh, you want the sword, do you? You want the sword, eh?" Ingolby's jawwas set now like a millstone. "Well, you can have it, and have it now. If you had taken what I said in the right way, I would not have done whatI'm going to do. I'm going to send you out of Lebanon. You're a bad anddangerous element here. You must go. "

"Who are you to tell me I must go?"

The fat hands quivered on the table with anger and emotion, but also withfear of something. "You may be a rich man and own railways, but--"

"But I am not rich and I don't own railways. Lately bad feeling has beengrowing on the Sagalac, and only a spark was needed to fire the ricks. You struck the spark in your sermon last night. I don't see the end ofit all. One thing is sure--you're not going to take the funeral serviceto-morrow. "

The slack red lips of the man of God were gone dry with excitement, theloose body swayed with the struggle to fight it out. 

"I'll take no orders from you, " the husky voice protested. "Myconscience alone will guide me. I'll speak the truth as I feel it, andthe people will stand by me. "

"In that case you WILL take orders from me. I'm going to save the townfrom what hurts it, if I can. I've got no legal rights over you, but Ihave moral rights, and I mean to enforce them. You gabble of conscienceand truth, but isn't it a new passion with you--conscience and truth?"

He leaned over the table and fastened the minister's eyes with his own. "Had you the same love of conscience and truth at Radley?"

A whiteness passed over the flabby face, and the beady eyes took on aglazed look. Fight suddenly died out of them. 

"You went on a missionary tour on the Ottawa River. At Radley you toiledand rested from your toil--and feasted. The girl had no father orbrother, but her uncle was a railway-man. He heard where you were, andhe hired with my company to come out here as a foreman. He came to dropon you. The day after he came he had a bad accident. I went to see him. He told me all; his nerves were unstrung, you observe. He meant to ruinyou, as you ruined the girl. He had proofs enough. The girl herself isin Winnipeg. Well, I know life, and I know man and man's follies andtemptations. I thought it a pity that a career and a life like yoursshould be ruined--"

A groan broke from the twitching lips before him, and a heavy sweat stoodout on the round, rolling forehead. 

"If the man spoke, I knew it would be all up with you, for the world isvery hard on men of God who fall. I've seen men ruined before this, because of an hour's passion and folly. I said to myself that you wereonly human, and that maybe you had paid heavy in remorse and fear. Thenthere was the honour of the town of Lebanon. I couldn't let the thingtake its course. I got the doctor to tell the man that he must go forspecial treatment to a hospital in Montreal, and I--well, I bought himoff on his promising to keep his mouth shut. He was a bit stiff interms, because he said the girl needed the money. The child died, luckily for you. Anyhow I bought him off, and he went. That was a yearago. I've got all the proofs in my pocket, even to the three sillyletters you wrote her when your senses were stronger than your judgment. I was going to see you about them to-day. "

He took from his pocket a small packet, and held them before the other'sface. "Have a good look at your own handwriting, and see if yourecognize it, " Ingolby continued. 

But the glazed, shocked eyes did not see. Reuben Tripple had passed theseveral stages of horror during Ingolby's merciless arraignment, and hehad nearly collapsed before he heard the end of the matter. When he knewthat Ingolby had saved him, his strength gave way, and he trembledviolently. Ingolby looked round and saw a jug of water. Pouring out aglassful, he thrust it into the fat, wrinkled fingers. 

"Drink and pull yourself together, " he said sternly. The shaken figurestraightened itself, and the water was gulped down. "I thank you, " hesaid in a husky voice. 

"You see I treated you fairly, and that you've been a fool?" Ingolbyasked with no lessened determination. 

"I have tried to atone, and--"

"No, you haven't had the right spirit to atone. You were fat with vanityand self-conceit. I've watched you. "

"In future I will--"

"Well, that rests with yourself, but your health is bad, and you're notgoing to take the funeral tomorrow. You've had a sudden breakdown, andyou're going to get a call from some church in the East--as far East asYokohama or Bagdad, I hope; and leave here in a few weeks. Youunderstand? I've thought the thing out, and you've got to go. You'll dono good to yourself or others here. Take my advice, and wherever you go, walk six miles a day at least, work in a garden, eat half as much as youdo, and be good to your wife. It's bad enough for any woman to be aparson's wife, but to be a parson's wife and your wife, too, wants a lotof fortitude. "

The heavy figure lurched to the upright, and steadied itself with a forcewhich had not yet been apparent. 

"I'll do my best--so help me God!" he said and looked Ingolby squarelyin the face for the first time. 

"All right, see you keep your word, " Ingolby replied, and nodded good-bye. 

The other went to the door, and laid a hand on the knob. 

Suddenly Ingolby stopped him, and thrust a little bundle of bills intohis hand. "There's a hundred dollars for your wife. It'll pay theexpense of moving, " he said. 

A look of wonder, revelation and gratitude crept into Tripple's face. "Iwill keep my word, so help me God!" he said again. 

"All right, good-bye, " responded Ingolby abruptly, and turned away. 

A moment afterwards the door closed behind the Rev. Reuben Tripple andhis influence in Lebanon. "I couldn't shake hands with him, " saidIngolby to himself, "but I'm glad he didn't sniffle. There's some stuffin him--if it only has a chance. "

"I've done a good piece of business, Berry, " he said cheerfully as hepassed through the barber-shop. "Suh, if you say so, " said the barber, and they left the shop together. 

CHAPTER IX

MATTER AND MIND AND TWO MEN

Promptly at nine o'clock Jethro Fawe knocked at Ingolby's door, and wasadmitted by the mulatto man-servant Jim Beadle, who was to Ingolby likehis right hand. It was Jim who took command of his house, "bossed" histwo female servants, arranged his railway tours, superintended hiskitchen--with a view to his own individual tastes; valeted him, kept hiscigars within a certain prescribed limit by a firm actuarial principlewhich transferred any surplus to his own use; gave him good advice, weighed up his friends and his enemies with shrewd sense; and protectedhim from bores and cranks, borrowers and "dead-beats. "

Jim was accustomed to take a good deal of responsibility, and had morethan once sent people to the right-about who had designs on his master, even though they came accredited. On such occasions he did not lie toprotect himself when called to account, but told the truthpertinaciously. He was obstinate in his vanity, and carried off hismistakes with aplomb. When asked by Ingolby what he called the GovernorGeneral when he took His Excellency over the new railway in Ingolby'sprivate car, he said, "I called him what everybody called him. I calledhim 'Succelency. '" And "Succelency" for ever after the Governor Generalwas called in the West. Jim's phonetic mouthful gave the West a roar oflaughter and a new word to the language. On another occasion Jim gavethe West a new phrase to its vocabulary which remains to this day. Having to take the wife of a high personage of the neighbouring Republicover the line in the private car, he had astounded his master bypresenting a bill for finger-bowls before the journey began. Ingolbysaid to him, "Jim, what the devil is this--finger-bowls in my privatecar? We've never had finger-bowls before, and we've had everybody as wasanybody to travel with us. " Jim's reply was final. "Say, " he replied, "we got to have 'em. Soon's I set my eyes on that lady I said: 'She's afinger-bowl lady. '"

"'Finger-bowl lady' be hanged, Jim, we don't--" Ingolby protested, butJim waved him down. 

"Say, " he said decisively, "she'll ask for them finger-bowls--she'll askfor 'em, and what'd I do if we hadn't got 'em. "

She did ask for them; and henceforth the West said of any woman who puton airs and wanted what she wasn't born to: "She's a finger-bowl lady. "

It was Jim who opened the door to Jethro Fawe, and his first glance wasone of prejudice. His quick perception saw that the Romany wore clothesnot natural to him. He felt the artificial element, the quality ofdisguise. He was prepared to turn the visitor away, no matter what hewanted, but Ingolby's card handed to him by the Romany made him pause. He had never known his master give a card like that more than once ortwice in the years they had been together. He fingered the card, scrutinized it carefully, turned it over, looked heavenward reflectively, as though the final permission for the visit remained with him, andfinally admitted the visitor. 

"Mr. Ingolby ain't in, " he said. "He went out a little while back. Yougot to wait, " he added sulkily, as he showed the Romany into Ingolby'sworking-room. 

As Jim did so, he saw lying on a chair a suit of clothes on top of whichwere a wig and false beard and moustache. Instantly he got between thevisitor and the make-up. The parcel was closed when he was in the room ahalf-hour before. Ingolby had opened it since, had been called out, andhad forgotten to cover the things up or put them away. 

"Sit down, " Jim said to the Romany, still covering the disguise. Then heraised them in his arms, and passed with them into another room, muttering angrily to himself. 

The Romany had seen, however. They were the first things on which hiseyes had fallen when he entered the room. A wig, a false beard, andworkman's clothes! What were they for? Were these disguises for theMaster Gorgio? Was he to wear them? If so, he--Jethro Fawe--would watchand follow him wherever he went. Had these disguises to do with Fleda--with his Romany lass?

His pulses throbbed; he was in an overwrought mood. He was ready for anyillusion, susceptible to any vagary of the imagination. 

He looked round the room. So this was the way the swaggering, masterfulGorgio lived?

Here were pictures and engravings which did not seem to belong to a newtown in a new land, where everything was useful or spectacular. Here wasa sense of culture and refinement. Here were finished and unfinishedwater-colours done by Ingolby's own hand or bought by him from some hard-up artist earning his way mile by mile, as it were. Here were books, notmany, but well-bound and important-looking, covering fields in whichJethro Fawe had never browsed, into which, indeed, he had never entered. If he had opened them he would have seen a profusion of marginal notes inpencil, and slips of paper stuck in the pages to mark important passages. 

He turned from them to the welcome array of weapons on the walls-rifles, shotguns, Indian bows, arrows and spears, daggers, and great sheath-knives such as are used from the Yukon to Bolivia, and a sabre with afaded ribbon of silk tied to the handle. This was all that Max Ingolbyhad inherited from his father--that artillery sabre which he had worn inthe Crimea and in the Indian Mutiny. Jethro's eyes wandered eagerly overthe weapons, and, in imagination, he had each one in his hand. From thepained, angry confusion he felt when he looked at the books had emerged afeeling of fanaticism, of feud and war, in which his spirit regained itsown kind of self-respect. In looking at the weapons he was as good a manas any Gorgio. Brains and books were one thing, but the strong arm, thequick eye, and the deft lunge home with the sword or dagger were better;they were of a man's own skill, not the acquired skill of another'sbrains which books give. He straightened his shoulders till he lookedlike a modern actor playing the hero in a romantic drama, and with quickvain motions he stroked and twisted his brown moustache, and ran hisfingers through his curling hair. In truth he was no coward; and hisconceit would not lessen his courage when the test of it came. 

As his eyes brightened from gloom and sullenness to valiant enmity, theysuddenly fell on a table in a corner where lay a black coffin-shapedthing of wood. In this case, he knew, was the Sarasate violin. Sarasate--once he had paid ten lira to hear Sarasate play the fiddle inTurin, and the memory of it was like the sun on the clouds to him now. In music such of him as was real found a home. It fed everything in him--his passion, his vanity; his vagabond taste, his emotions, his self-indulgence, his lust. It was the means whereby he raised himself toadventure and to pilgrimage, to love and license and loot and spying andsecret service here and there in the east of Europe. It was theflagellation of these senses which excited him to do all that man may doand more. 

He was going to play to the masterful Gorgio, and he would play as he hadnever played before. He would pour the soul of his purpose into themusic--to win back or steal back, the lass sealed to him by the StarzkeRiver. 

"Kismet!" he said aloud, and he rose from the chair to go to the violin, but as he did so the door opened and Ingolby entered. 

"Oh, you're here, and longing to get at it, " he said pleasantly. 

He had seen the look in the eyes of the Romany as he entered, and notedwhich way his footsteps were tending. "Well, we needn't lose any time, but will you have a drink and a smoke first?" he added. 

He threw his hat in a corner, and opened a spirittable where shone a halfdozen cut-glass, tumblers and several well-filled bottles, while boxes ofcigars and cigarettes flanked them. It was the height of modern luxuryimported from New York, and Jethro eyed it with envious inward comment. The Gorgio had the world on his key-chain! Every door would open to him--that was written on his face--unless Fate stepped in and closed alldoors!

The door of Fleda's heart had already been opened, but he had not yetmade his bed in it, and there was still time to help Fate, if her mysticfinger beckoned. 

Jethro nodded in response to Ingolby's invitation to drink. "But I donot drink much when I play, " he remarked. "There's enough liquor in thehead when the fiddle's in the hand. 'Dadia', I do not need the spirit tomake the pulses go!"

"As little as you like then, if you'll only play as well as you did thisafternoon, " Ingolby said cheerily. "I will play better, " was the reply. 

"On Sarasate's violin--well, of course. "

"Not only because it is Sarasate's violin, 'Kowadji'!" "Kowadji! Oh, come now, you may be a Gipsy, but that doesn't mean that you're anEgyptian or an Arab. Why Arabic--why 'kowadji'?"

The other shrugged his shoulders. "Who can tell I speak many languages. I do not like the Mister. It is ugly in the ear. Monsieur, signor, effendi, kowadji, they have some respect in them. "

"You wanted to pay me respect, eh?"

"You have Sarasate's violin!"

"I have a lot of things I could do without. "

"Could you do without the Sarasate?"

"Long enough to hear you play it, Mr. --what is your name, may I ask?"

"My name is Jethro Fawe. "

"Well, Jethro Fawe, my Romany 'chal', you shall show me what a violin cando. "

"You know the Romany lingo?" Jethro asked, as Ingolby went over to theviolin-case. 

"A little--just a little. "

"When did you learn it?" There was a sudden savage rage in Jethro'sheart, for he imagined Fleda had taught Ingolby. 

"Many a year ago when I could learn anything and remember anything andforget anything. " Ingolby sighed. "But that doesn't matter, for I knowonly a dozen words or so, and they won't carry me far. "

He turned the violin over in his hands. "This ought to do a bit morethan the cotton-field fiddle, " he said dryly. 

He snapped the strings, looking at it with the love of the naturalconnoisseur. "Finish your drink and your cigarette. I can wait, " headded graciously. "If you like the cigarettes, you must take some awaywith you. You don't drink much, that's clear, therefore you must smoke. Every man has some vice or other, if it's only hanging on to virtue tootight. "

He laughed eagerly. Strange that he should have a feeling of greatercompanionship for a vagabond like this than for most people he met. Wasit some temperamental thing in him? "Dago, " as he called the Romanyinwardly, there was still a bond between them. They understood the gloryof a little instrument like this, and could forget the world in the lighton a great picture. There was something in the air they breathed whichgave them easier understanding of each other and of the world. 

Suddenly with a toss Jethro drained the glass of spirit, though he hadnot meant to do so. He puffed the cigarette an instant longer, thenthrew it on the floor, and was about to put his foot on it, when Ingolbystopped him. 

"I'm a slave, " he said. "I've got a master. It's Jim. Jim's a hardmaster, too. He'd give me fits if we ground our cigarette ashes into thecarpet. "

He threw the refuse into a flower-pot. 

"That squares Jim. Now let's turn the world inside out, " he proceeded. He handed the fiddle over. "Here's the little thing that'll let you dothe trick. Isn't it a beauty, Jethro Fawe?"

The Romany took it, his eyes glistening with mingled feelings. Hatredwas in his soul, and it showed in the sidelong glance as Ingolby turnedto place a chair where he could hear and see comfortably; yet he had themusician's love of the perfect instrument, and the woods and the streamsand the sounds of night and the whisperings of trees and the ghosts thatwalked in lonely places and called across the glens--all were pouringinto his brain memories which made his pulses move far quicker than theliquor he had drunk could do. 

"What do you wish?" he asked as he tuned the fiddle. 

Ingolby laughed good-humouredly. "Something Eastern; something you'dplay for yourself if you were out by the Caspian Sea. Something that haslife in it. "

Jethro continued to tune the fiddle carefully and abstractedly. His eyeswere half-closed, giving them a sulky look, and his head was averted. Hemade no reply to Ingolby, but his head swayed from side to side in thatsensuous state produced by self-hypnotism, so common among the half-Eastern races. By an effort of the will they send through the nerves aflood of feeling which is half-anaesthetic, half-intoxicant. Carriedinto its fullest expression it drives a man amok or makes of him ahowling dervish, a fanatic, or a Shakir. In lesser intensity it producesthe musician of the purely sensuous order, or the dancer that performsprodigies of abandoned grace. Suddenly the sensuous exaltation had comeupon Jethro Fawe. It was as though he had discharged into his systemfrom some cells of his brain a flood which coursed like a stream of softfire. 

In the pleasurable pain of such a mood he drew his bow across the stringswith a sweeping stroke, and then, for an instant, he ran hither andthither on the strings testing the quality and finding the range andcapacity of the instrument. It was a scamper of hieroglyphics whichcould only mean anything to a musician. 

"Well, what do you think of him?" Ingolby asked as the Romany loweredthe bow. "Paganini--Joachim--Sarasate--any one, it is good enough, " wasthe half-abstracted reply. 

"It is good enough for you--almost, eh?"

Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot intothe Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganinior Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted. 

Ingolby's quick perception saw, however, what his words had done, and hehastened to add: "I believe you can get more out of that fiddle thanSarasate ever could, in your own sort of music anyhow. I've never heardany one play half so well the kind of piece you played this afternoon. I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself buying the fiddle. I didn't, didI? I gave five thousand dollars for it. "

"It's worth anything to the man that loves it, " was the Romany'sresponse. He was mollified by the praise he had received. 

He raised the fiddle slowly to his chin, his eyes wandering round theroom, then projecting themselves into space, from which they onlyreturned to fix themselves on Ingolby with the veiled look which sees butdoes not see--such a look as an oracle, or a death-god, or a soullessmonster of some between-world, half-Pagan god would wear. Just such alook as Watts's "Minotaur" wears in the Tate Gallery in London. 

In an instant he was away in a world which was as far off from this worldas Jupiter is from Mars. It was the world of his soul's origin--a placeof beautiful and yet of noisome creations also; of white mountains andgreen hills, and yet of tarns in which crawled evil things; a place ofvagrant, hurricanes and tidal-waves and cloud-bursts, of forests alivewith quarrelling! and affrighted beasts. It was a place where birdssang divinely, yet where obscene fowls of prey hovered in the blue orwaited by the dying denizens of the desert or the plain; where dark-eyedwomen heard, with sidelong triumph, the whispers of passion; where sweet-faced children fled in fear from terrors undefined; where harpies andwitch-women and evil souls waited in ambush; or scurried through thecoverts where men brought things to die; or where they fled for futilerefuge from armed foes. It was a world of unbridled will, this, wherethe soul of Jethro Fawe had its origin; and to it his senses fledinvoluntarily when he put Sarasate's fiddle to his chin this Autumnevening. 

From that well of the First Things--the first things of his own life, thefount from which his forebears drew, backwards through the centuries, Jethro Fawe quickly drank his fill; and then into the violin he pouredhis own story--no improvisation, but musical legends and classicfantasies and folk-breathings and histories of anguished or joyous hatersor lovers of life; treated by the impressionist who made that which hadbeen in other scenes to other men the thing of the present and for themen who are. That which had happened by the Starzke River was now of theSagalac River. The passions and wild love and irresponsible deeds of thelife he had lived in years gone by were here. 

It was impossible for Ingolby to resist the spell of the music. Suchabandonment he had never seen in any musician, such riot of musicalmeaning he had never heard. He was conscious of the savagery and thebestial soul of vengeance which spoke through the music, and drowned thejoy and radiance and almost ghostly and grotesque frivolity of theearlier passages; but it had no personal meaning to him, though at timesit seemed when the Romany came near and bent over him with the ecstaticattack of the music, as though there was a look in the black eyes likethat of a man who kills. It had, of course, nothing to do with him; itwas the abandonment of a highly emotional nature, he thought. 

It was only after he had been playing, practically without ceasing, forthree-quarters of an hour, that there came to Ingolby the trueinterpretation of the Romany mutterings through the man's white, wolf-like teeth. He did not shrink, however, but kept his head and watched. 

Once, as the musician flung his body round in a sweep of passion, Ingolbysaw the black eyes flash to the weapons on the wall with a malign lookwhich did not belong to the music alone, and he took a swift estimate ofthe situation. Why the man should have any intentions against him, hecould not guess, except that he might be one of the madmen who have avendetta against the capitalist. Or was he a tool of Felix Marchand? Itdid not seem possible, and yet if the man was penniless and an anarchistmaybe, there was the possibility. Or--the blood rushed to his face--orit might be that the Gipsy's presence here, this display of devilishantipathy, as though it were all part of the music, was due, somehow, toFleda Druse. 

The music swelled to a swirling storm, crashed and flooded the feelingswith a sense of shipwreck and chaos, through which a voice seemed to cry-the quiver and delicate shrillness of one isolated string--and then fella sudden silence, as though the end of all things had come; and on thesilence the trembling and attenuated note which had quivered on thelonely string, rising, rising, piercing the infinite distance and sinkinginto silence again. 

In the pause which followed the Romany stood panting, his eyes fixed onIngolby with an evil exaltation which made him seem taller and biggerthan he was, but gave him, too, a look of debauchery like that on theface of a satyr. Generations of unbridled emotion, of license of thefields and the covert showed in his unguarded features. 

"What did the single cry--the motif--express?" Ingolby asked coolly. "I know there was catastrophe, the tumblings of avalanches, but the voicethat cried-the soul of a lover, was it?"

The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. "It was the soul of one thatbetrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures. "

Ingolby laughed carelessly. "It was a fine bit of work. Sarasate wouldhave been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard. Anyhow he couldn'thave played that. Is it Gipsy music?"

"It is the music of a 'Gipsy, ' as you call it. "

"Well, it's worth a year's work to hear, " Ingolby replied admiringly, yetacutely conscious of danger. "Are you a musician by trade?" he asked. 

"I have no trade. " The glowing eyes kept scanning the wall where theweapons hung, and as though without purpose other than to get a pipe fromthe rack on the wall, Ingolby moved to where he could be prepared for anyrush. It seemed absurd that there should be such a possibility; but theworld was full of strange things. 

"What brought you to the West?" he asked as he filled a pipe, his backalmost against the wall. 

"I came to get what belonged to me. "

Ingolby laughed ironically. "Most of us are here for that purpose. Wethink the world owes us such a lot. "

"I know what is my own. "

Ingolby lit his pipe, his eyes reflectively scanning the other. 

"Have you got it again out here--your own?"

"Not yet, but I will. "

Ingolby took out his watch, and looked at it. "I haven't found it easygetting all that belongs to me. "

"You have found it easier getting what belongs to some one else, " was thesnarling response. 

Ingolby's jaw hardened. What did the fellow mean? Did he refer tomoney, or--was it Fleda Druse? "See here, " he said, "there's no need tosay things like that. I never took anything that didn't belong to me, that I didn't win, or earn or pay for--market price or 'founder'sshares'"--he smiled grimly. "You've given me the best treat I've had inmany a day. I'd walk fifty miles to hear you play my Sarasate--or evenold Berry's cotton-field fiddle. I'm as grateful as I can be, and I'dlike to pay you for it; but as you're not a professional, and it's onegentleman to another as it were, I can only thank you--or maybe help youto get what's your own, if you're really trying to get it out here. Meanwhile, have a cigar and a drink. "

He was still between the Romany and the wall, and by a movement forwardsought to turn Jethro to the spirit-table. Probably this manoeuvring wasall nonsense, that he was wholly misreading the man; but he had alwaystrusted his instincts, and he would not let his reason rule him entirelyin such a situation. He could also ring the bell for Jim, or call tohim, for while he was in the house Jim was sure to be near by; but hefelt he must deal with the business alone. 

The Romany did not move towards the spirit-table, and Ingolby becameincreasingly vigilant. 

"No, I can't pay you anything, that's clear, " he said; "but to get yourown--I've got some influence out here--what can I do? A stranger is upagainst all kinds of things if he isn't a native, and you're not. Yourhome and country's a good way from here, eh?"

Suddenly the Romany faced him. "Yes. I come from places far from here. Where is the Romany's home? It is everywhere in the world, but it iseverywhere inside his tent. Because his country is everywhere andnowhere, his home is more to him than it is to any other. He is alonewith his wife, and with his own people. Yes, and by long and by last, he will make the man pay who spoils his home. It is all he has. Good orbad, it is all he has. It is his own. "

Ingolby had a strange, disturbing premonition that he was about to hearwhat would startle him, but he persisted. "You said you had come here toget your own--is your home here?"

For a moment the Romany did not answer. He had worked himself into agreat passion. He had hypnotized himself, he had acted for a while asthough he was one of life's realities; but suddenly there passed throughhis veins the chilling sense of the unreal, that he was only acting apart, as he had ever done in his life, and that the man before him could, with a wave of the hand, raise the curtain on all his disguises andpretences. It was only for an instant, however, for there swept throughhim the feeling that Fleda had roused in him--the first real passion, thefirst true love--if what such as he felt can be love--that he had everknown; and he saw her again as she was in the but in the wood defyinghim, ready to defend herself against him. All his erotic anger andmelodramatic fervour were alive in him once more. 

He was again a man with a wrong, a lover dispossessed. On the instanthis veins filled with passionate blood. The Roscian strain in him hadits own tragic force and reality. 

"My home is where my own is, and you, have taken my own from me, as Isaid, " he burst out. "There was all the world for you, but I had only mymusic and my wife, and you have taken my wife from me. 'Mi Duvel', youhave taken, but you shall give back again, or there will be only one ofus in the world! The music I have played for you--that has told you all:the thing that was music from the beginning of Time, the will of theFirst of All. Fleda Druse, she was mine, she is my wife, and you, theGorgio, come between, and she will not return to me. "

A sudden savage desire came to Ingolby to strike the man in the face--this Gipsy vagabond the husband of Fleda Druse! It was too monstrous. It was an evil lie, and yet she had said she was a Romany, and had saidit with apparent shame or anxiety. She had given him no promise, hadpledged no faith, had admitted no love, and yet already in his heart ofhearts he thought upon her as his own. Ever since the day he had heldher in his arms at the Carillon Rapids her voice had sounded in his ears, and a warmth was in his heart which had never been there in all his days. This waif of barbarism even to talk of Fleda Druse as though he was ofthe same sphere as herself invited punishment-but to claim her as hiswife! It was shameless. An ugly mood came on him, the force that hadmade him what he was filled all his senses. He straightened himself;contempt of the Ishmael showed at his lips. 

"I think you lie, Jethro Fawe, " he said quietly, and his eyes were hardand piercing. "Gabriel Druse's daughter is not--never was--any wife ofyours. She never called you husband. She does not belong to the refuseof the world. "

The Romany made a sudden rush towards the wall where the weapons hung, but two arms of iron were flung out and caught him, and he was hurledacross the room. He crashed against a table, swayed, missed a chairwhere rested the Sarasate violin, then fell to the floor; but hestaggered to his feet again, all his senses in chaos. 

"You almost fell on the fiddle. If you had hurt it I'd have hurt you, Mr. Fawe, " Ingolby said with a grim smile. "That fiddle's got too muchin it to waste it. "

"Mi Duvel! Mi Duvel!" gasped the Romany in his fury. 

"You can say that as much as you like, but if you play any more of yourmonkey tricks here, my Paganini, I will wring your neck, " Ingolbyreturned, his six feet of solid flesh making a movement of menace. 

"And look, " he added, "since you are here, and I said what I meant, thatI'd help you to get your own, I'll keep my word. But don't talk indamned riddles. Talk white men's language. You said that GabrielDruse's daughter was your wife. Explain what you meant, and nononsense. "

The Romany made a gesture of acquiescence. "She was made mine accordingto Romany law by the River Starzke seventeen years ago. I was the son ofLemuel Fawe, rightful King of all the Romanys. Gabriel Druse seized theheadship, and my father gave him three thousand pounds that we shouldmarry, she and I, and so bring the headship to the Fawes again whenGabriel Druse should die; and so it was done by the River Starzke in theRoumelian country. "

Ingolby winced, for the man's words rang true. A cloud came over hisface, but he said nothing. Jethro saw the momentary advantage. "You didnot know?" he asked. "She did not tell you she was made my wife thoseyears ago? She did not tell you she was the daughter of the Romany King?So it is, you see, she is afraid to tell the truth. "

Ingolby's knitted bulk heaved with desire to injure. "Your wife--youmelodious sinner! Do you think such tomfoolery has any effect in thiscivilized country? She is about as much your wife as I am your brother. Don't talk your heathenish rot here. I said I'd help you to get yourown, because you played the fiddle as few men can play it, and I owe youa lot for that hour's music; but there's nothing belonging to GabrielDruse that belongs to you, and his daughter least of all. Look out--don't sit on the fiddle, damn you!"

The Romany had made a motion as if to sit down on the chair where thefiddle was, but stopped short at Ingolby's warning. For an instantJethro had an inclination to seize the fiddle and break it across hisknees. It would be an exquisite thing to destroy five thousand dollars'worth of this man's property at a single wrench and blow. But the spiritof the musician asserted itself before the vengeful lover could carry outhis purpose; as Ingolby felt sure it would. Ingolby had purposely giventhe warning about the fiddle, in the belief that it might break theunwelcome intensity of the scene. He detested melodrama, and the scenecame precious near to it. Men had been killed before his eyes more thanonce, but there had been no rodomontade even when there had been a womanin the case. 

This Romany lover, however, seemed anxious to make a Sicilian drama outof his preposterous claim, and it sickened him. Who was the fellow thathe should appear in the guise of a rival to himself! It was humiliatingand offensive. Ingolby had his own kind of pride and vanity, and theywere both hurt now. He would have been less irritable if this rival hadbeen as good a man as himself or better. He was so much a gamester thathe would have said, "Let the best man win, " and have taken his chances. 

His involuntary strategy triumphed for the moment. The Romany looked atthe fiddle for an instant with murderous eyes, but the cool, quiet voiceof Ingolby again speaking sprayed his hot virulence. 

"You can make a good musician quite often, but a good fiddle is a prize-packet from the skies, " Ingolby said. "When you get a good musician anda good fiddle together it's a day for a salute of a hundred guns. "

Half-dazed with unregulated emotion, Jethro acted with indecision for amoment, and the fiddle was safe. But he had suffered the indignity ofbeing flung like a bag of bones across the room, and the microbe ofinsane revenge was in him. It was not to be killed by the cold humour ofthe man who had worsted him. He returned to the attack. 

"She is mine, and her father knows it is so. I have waited all theseyears, and the hour has come. I will--"

Ingolby's eyes became hard and merciless again. "Don't talk your Gipsyrhetoric. I've had enough. No hour has come that makes a woman do whatshe doesn't want to do in a free country. The lady is free to do whatshe pleases here within British law, and British law takes no heed ofRomany law or any other law. You'll do well to go back to your Roumeliancountry or whatever it is. The lady will marry whom she likes. "

"She will never marry you, " the Romany said huskily and menacingly. 

"I have never asked her, but if I do, and she said yes, no one couldprevent it. "

"I would prevent it. "

"How?"

"She is a Romany: she belongs to the Romany people; I will find a way. "

Ingolby had a flash of intuition. 

"You know well that if Gabriel Druse passed the word, your life wouldn'tbe worth a day's purchase. The Camorra would not be more certain or moredeadly. If you do anything to hurt the daughter of Gabriel Druse, youwill pay the full price, and you know it. The Romanys don't love youbetter than their rightful chief. "

"I am their rightful chief. "

"Maybe, but if they don't say so, too, you might as well be theirrightful slave. You are a genius in your way. Take my advice and returnto the trail of the Gipsy. Or, there's many an orchestra would give youa good salary as leader. You've got no standing in this country. Youcan't do anything to hurt me except try to kill me, and I'll take mychance of that. You'd better have a drink now and go quietly home tobed. Try and understand that this is a British town, and we don't settleour affairs by jumping from a violin rhapsody to a knife or a gun. " Hejerked his head backwards towards the wall. "Those things are forornament, not for use. Come, Fawe, have a drink and go home like a goodcitizen for one night only. "

The Romany hesitated, then shook his head and muttered chaotically. 

"Very well, " was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed a bell, and, in aninstant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidently been at thekeyhole. "Jim, " he said, "show the gentleman out. "

But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust itinto the Romany's hands. "They're the best to be got this side ofHavana, " he said cheerily. "They'll help you put more fancy still intoyour playing. Good night. You never played better than you've doneduring the last hour, I'll stake my life on that. Good night. Show Mr. Fawe out, Jim. "

The Romany had not time to thrust back the cigars upon his host, anddazed by the strategy of the thing, by the superior force and mind of theman who a moment ago he would have killed, he took the box and turnedtowards the door, taking his hat dazedly from Jim. 

At the door, however, catching sight of the sly grin on the mulattoservant's face, his rage and understanding returned to him, and he facedthe masterful Gorgio once again. 

"By God, I'll have none of it!" he exclaimed roughly and threw the boxof cigars on the floor of the room. Ingolby was not perturbed. "Don'tforget there's an east-bound train every day, " he said menacingly, andturned his back as the door closed. 

In another minute Jim entered the room. "Get the clothes and the wig andthings, Jim. I must be off, " he said. 

"The toughs don't get going till about this time over at Manitou, "responded Jim. Then he told his master about the clothes having beenexposed in the room when the Romany arrived. "But I don't think he seenthem, " Jim added with approval of his own conduct. "I got 'em out quickas lightning. I covered 'em like a blanket. "

"All right, Jim; it doesn't matter. That fellow's got other things tothink of than that. "

He was wrong, however. The Romany was waiting outside in the darknessnot far away--watching and waiting. 

CHAPTER X

FOR LUCK

Felix Marchand was in the highest spirits. His clean-shaven face waswrinkled with smiles and sneers. His black hair was flung in waves oftriumph over his heavily-lined forehead; one hand was on his hip withbrave satisfaction, the other with lighted cigarette was tossed upwardsin exultation. 

"I've got him. I've got him--like that!" he said transferring thecigarette to his mouth, and clenching his right hand as though it couldnot be loosed by an earthquake. "For sure, it's a thing finished as thesolder of a pannikin--like that. "

He caught up a tin quart-pot from the bar-counter and showed the solderedbottom of it. 

He was alone in the bar of Barbazon's Hotel except for one person--theyoungest of the officials who had been retired from the offices of therailways when Ingolby had merged them. This was a man who had got hisposition originally by nepotism, and represented the worst elements of anational life where the spoils system is rooted in the popular mind. Hehad, however, a little residue of that discipline which, working in agreat industrial organization, begets qualms as to extreme courses. 

He looked reflectively at the leaden pot and said in reply: "I'd neverbelieve in anything where that Ingolby is concerned till I had it in thepalm of my hand. He's as deep as a well, and when he's quietest it'sgood to look out. He takes a lot of skinning, that badger. "

"He's skinned this time all right, " was Marchand's reply. "To-morrow'llbe the biggest day Manitou's had since the Indian lifted his wigwam andthe white man put down his store. Listen--hear them! They're coming!"

He raised a hand for silence, and a rumbling, ragged roar of voices couldbe heard without. 

"The crowd have gone the rounds, " he continued. "They started atBarbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's. They're drunk enoughto-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got soreheads they'll do anything. They'll make that funeral look like asqueezed orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're to bebosses of our own show. The strike'll be on after the funeral, and afterthe strike's begun there'll be--eh, bien sur!"

He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far. "There'll be what?"whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save to make a warninggesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar. 

"They're coming back, Barbazon, " Marchand said to the landlord, jerkinghis head towards the front door. The noise of the crowd was increasing, the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had to raise their voices. "You'll do a land-office business to-night, " he declared. 

Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaolin Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dugup the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the firstsaloon at Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one. He was heavy and thick-set, with huge shoulders, big hands, and beadyeyes that looked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vicesother than drink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and wastherefore ready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than onehorse and canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when landwas cheap, had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, could Barbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits. He had a wifewho had left him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returned andstraightened out his house and affairs once again; and even when she wentoff with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed back withoutreproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, and herabilities were of more value to him than her virtue. On the whole, GrosBarbazon was a bad lot. 

At Marchand's words Barbazon shrugged his shoulders. "The more spentto-night, the less to spend to-morrow, " he growled. 

"But there's going to be spending for a long time, " Marchand answered. "There's going to be a riot to-morrow, and there's going to be a strikethe next day, and after that there's going to be something else. "

"What else?" Barbazon asked, his beady eyes fastened on Marchand's face. 

"Something worth while-better than all the rest. " Barbazon's lowforehead seemed to disappear almost, as he drew the grizzled shock ofhair down, by wrinkling his forehead with a heavy frown. 

"It's no damn good, m'sieu', " he growled. "Am I a fool? They'll spendmoney to-night, and tomorrow, and the next day, and when the row is on;and the more they spend then, the less they'll have to spend by-and-by. It's no good. The steady trade for me--all the time. That is my idee. And the something else--what? You think there's something else that'llbe good for me? Nom de Dieu, there's nothing you're doing, or mean todo, but'll hurt me and everybody. "

"That's your view, is it, Barbazon?" exclaimed Marchand loudly, for thecrowd was now almost at the door. "You're a nice Frenchman and patriot. That crowd'll be glad to hear you think they're fools. Suppose they tookit into their heads to wreck the place?"

Barbazon's muddy face got paler, but his eyes sharpened, and he leanedover the bar-counter, and said with a snarl: "Go to hell, and say whatyou like; and then I'll have something to say about something else, m'sieu'. "

Marchand was about to reply angrily, but he instantly changed his mind, and before Barbazon could stop him, he sprang over the counter anddisappeared into the office behind the bar. 

"I won't steal anything, Barbazon, " he said over his shoulder as heclosed the door behind him. 

"I'll see to that, " Barbazon muttered stolidly, but with malicious eyes. 

The front door was flung open now, and the crowd poured into the room, boisterous, reckless, though some were only sullen, watchful and angry. These last were mostly men above middle age, and of a fanatical andracially bitter type. They were not many, but in one sense they were thebackbone and force of the crowd, probably the less intelligent but themore tenacious and consistent. They were black spots of gathering stormin an electric atmosphere. 

All converged upon the bar. Two assistants rushed the drinks along thecounter with flourishes, while Barbazon took in the cash and sharplychecked the rougher element, who were inclined to treat the bar as aplace for looting. Most of them, however, had a wholesome fear ofBarbazon, and also most of them wished to stand well with him--creditwas a good thing, even in a saloon. 

For a little time the room was packed, then some of the more restlessspirits, their thirst assuaged, sallied forth to taste the lager and oldrye elsewhere, and "raise Cain" in the streets. When they went, itbecame possible to move about more freely in the big bar-room, at the endof which was a billiard-table. It was notable, however, that the moresullen elements stayed. Some of them were strangers to each other. Manitou was a distributing point for all radiations of the compass, andmen were thrown together in its streets who only saw one another once ortwice a year-when they went to the woods in the Fall or worked the riversin the Summer. Some were Mennonites, Doukhobors and Finlanders, someSwedes, Norwegians and Icelanders. Others again were birds of passagewho would probably never see Manitou in the future, but they were mostlyFrench, and mostly Catholic, and enemies of the Orange Lodges whereverthey were, east or west or north or south. They all had a common groundof unity--half-savage coureurs-de-bois, river-drivers, railway-men, factory hands, cattlemen, farmers, labourers; they had a gift forprejudice, and taking sides on something or other was as the breathof the nostrils to them. 

The greater number of the crowd were, however, excitable, good-naturedmen, who were by instinct friendly, save when their prejudices wereexcited; and their oaths and exclamations were marvels of drollingenuity. Most of them were still too good-humoured with drink to bedangerous, but all hoped for trouble at the Orange funeral on principle, and the anticipated strike had elements of "thrill. " They were of aclass, however, who would swing from what was good-humour to deadly angerin a minute, and turn a wind of mere prejudice into a hurricane of lifeand death with the tick of a clock. They would all probably go to theOrange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some of them were loud indenunciation of Ingolby and "the Lebanon gang"; they joked coarsely overthe dead Orangeman, but their cheerful violence had not yet theappearance of reality. 

One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwartproportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loosecorded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural uglinessmade almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and anoverhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a dark night. 

"Let's go over to Lebanon to-night and have it out, " he said in French. "That Ingolby--let's go break his windows and give him a dip in theriver. He's the curse of this city. Holy, once Manitou was a place tolive in, now it's a place to die in! The factories, the mills, they'refull of Protes'ants and atheists and shysters; the railway office is goneto Lebanon. Ingolby took it there. Manitou was the best town inthe West; it's no good now. Who's the cause? Ingolby's the cause. Nameof God, if he was here I'd get him by the throat as quick as winkin'. "

He opened and shut his fingers with spasmodic malice, and glared roundthe room. "He's going to lock us out if we strike, " he added. "He'sgoing to take the bread out of our mouths; he's going to put his heel onManitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle to Lebanon--to alot of infidels, Protes'ants, and thieves. Who's going to stand it? Isay-bagosh, I say, who's going to stand it!"

"He's a friend of the Monseigneur, " ventured a factory-hand, who had awife and children to support, and however partisan, was little ready forthat which would stop his supplies. 

"Sacre bapteme! That's part of his game, " roared the big river-driver inreply. "I'll take the word of Felix Marchand about that. Look at him!That Felix Marchand doesn't try to take the bread out of people's mouths. He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants the old town to stay asit is and not be swallowed up. "

"Three cheers for Felix Marchand !" cried some one in the throng. Allcheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard, who leanedagainst the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncob pipe. He was aFrench Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat on the floor like anavvy--he had filled his pipe with the strongest tobacco that one manever offered to another. As the crowd cheered for Felix Marchand, hemade his way up towards the bar slowly. He must have been tall when hewas young; now he was stooped, yet there was still something very sinewyabout him. 

"Who's for Lebanon?" cried the big river-driver with an oath. "Who'sfor giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in the river?"

"I am--I am--I am--all of us!" shouted the crowd. "It's no good waitingfor to-morrow. Let's get the Lebs by the scruff to-night. Let's breakIngolby's windows and soak him in the Sagalac. Allons--allons gai!"

Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations soundedthrough the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but theexit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking inFrench. 

"Wait a minute, my friends!" it cried. "Wait a minute. Let's ask a fewquestions first. "

"Who's he?" asked a dozen voices. "What's he going to say?" The mobmoved again towards the bar. 

The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech. 

"What've you got to say about it, son?" he asked threateningly. 

"Well, to ask a few questions first--that's all, " the old man replied. 

"You don't belong here, old cock, " the other said roughly. 

"A good many of us don't belong here, " the old man replied quietly. "Italways is so. This isn't the first time I've been to Manitou. You're ariver-driver, and you don't live here either, " he continued. 

"What've you got to say about it? I've been coming and going here forten years. I belong--bagosh, what do you want to ask? Hurry up. We'vegot work to do. We're going to raise hell in Lebanon. "

"And give hell to Ingolby, " shouted some one in the crowd. 

"Suppose Ingolby isn't there?" questioned the old man. 

"Oh, that's one of your questions, is it?" sneered the big river-driver. "Well, if you knew him as we do, you'd know that it's at night-time hesits studyin' how he'll cut Lebanon's throat. He's home, all right. He's in Lebanon anyhow, and we'll find him. "

"Well, but wait a minute--be quiet a bit, " said the old man, his eyesblinking slowly at the big riverdriver. "I've been 'round a good deal, and I've had some experience in the world. Did you ever give thatIngolby a chance to tell you what his plans were? Did you ever get closeto him and try to figure what he was driving at? There's no chance ofgetting at the truth if you don't let a man state his case--but no. Ifhe can't make you see his case then is the time to jib, not before. "

"Oh, get out!" cried a rowdy English road-maker in the crowd. "We knowall right what Ingolby's after. "

"Eh, well, what is he after?" asked the old man looking the other in theeye. 

"What's he after? Oof-oof-oof, that's what he's after. He's for his ownpocket, he's for being boss of all the woolly West. He's after keepingus poor and making himself rich. He's after getting the cinch on twotowns and three railways, and doing what he likes with it all; and we'reafter not having him do it, you bet. That's how it is, old hoss. "

The other stroked his beard with hands which, somehow, gave littleindication of age, and then, with a sudden jerk forward of his head, hesaid: "Oh, it's like that, eh? Is that what M'sieu' Marchand told you?That's what he said, is it?"

The big river-driver, eager to maintain his supreme place as leader, lunged forward a step, and growled a challenge. 

"Who said it? What does it matter if M'sieu' Marchand said it--it'strue. If I said it, it's true. All of us in this room say it, and it'strue. Young Marchand says what Manitou says. "

The old man's eyes grew brighter--they were exceedingly sharp for one soold, and he said quite gently now:

"M. Marchand said it first, and you all say it afterwards--ah, bah! Butlisten to me; I know Max Ingolby that you think is such a villain; I knowhim well. I knew him when he was a little boy and--"

"You was his nurse, I suppose!" cried the Englishman's voice amid a roarof laughter. 

"Taught him his A-B-C-was his dear, kind teacher, eh?" hilariously criedanother. 

The old man appeared not to hear. "I have known him all the years since. He has only been in the West a few years, but he has lived in the worldexactly thirty-three years. He never willingly did anybody harm--never. Since he came West, since he came to the Sagalac, he's brought work toLebanon and to Manitou. There are hundreds more workmen in both thetowns than there were when he came. It was he made others come with muchmoney and build the factories and the mills. Work means money, moneymeans bread, bread means life--so. "

The big river-driver, seeing the effect of the old man's words upon thecrowd, turned to them with an angry gesture and a sneer. 

"I s'pose Ingolby has paid this old skeesicks for talking this swash. We know all right what Ingolby is, and what he's done. He's made warbetween the two towns--there's hell to pay now on both sides of theSagalac. He took away the railway offices from here, and threw men outof work. He's done harm to Manitou--he's against Manitou every time. "

Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd, though some were silent, looking curiously at the forceful and confident old man. Even his bentshoulders seemed to suggest driving power rather than the weight ofyears. He suddenly stretched out a hand in command as it were. 

"Comrades, comrades, " he said, "every man makes mistakes. Even if it wasa mistake for Ingolby to take away the offices from Manitou, he's done abig thing for both cities by combining the three railways. "

"Monopoly, " growled a voice from the crowd. "Not monopoly, " the old manreplied with a ring to his voice, which made it younger, fresher. "Notmonopoly, but better management of the railways, with more wages, moremoney to spend on things to eat and drink and wear, more dollars in thepocket of everybody that works in Manitou and Lebanon. Ingolby works, he doesn't loaf. "

"Oh, gosh all hell, he's a dynamo, " shouted a voice from the crowd. "He's a dynamo running the whole show-eh!"

The old man seemed to grow shorter, but as he thrust his shouldersforward, it was like a machine gathering energy and power. 

"I'll tell you, friends, what Ingolby is trying to do, " he said in a lowvoice vibrating with that force which belongs neither to age nor youth, but is the permanent activity uniting all ages of a man. "Of course, Ingolby is ambitious and he wants power. He tries to do the big thingsin the world because there is the big thing to do--for sure. Withoutsuch men the big things are never done, and other men have less work todo, and less money and poorer homes. They discover and construct anddesign and invent and organize and give opportunities. I am a workingman, but I know what Ingolby thinks. I know what men think who try to dothe big things. I have tried to do them. "

The crowd were absolutely still now, but the big river-driver shookhimself free of the eloquence, which somehow swayed them all, and said:

"You--you look as if you'd tried to do big things, you do, old skeesicks. I bet you never earned a hundred dollars in your life. " He turned to thecrowd with fierce gestures. "Let's go to Lebanon and make the placesing, " he roared. "Let's get Ingolby out to talk for himself, if hewants to talk. We know what we want to do, and we're not going to bebossed. He's for Lebanon and we're for Manitou. Lebanon means to bossus, Lebanon wants to sit on us because we're Catholics, because we'reFrench, because we're honest. "

Again a wave of revolution swept through the crowd. The big river-driverrepresented their natural instincts, their native fanaticism, theirprejudices. But the old man spoke once more. 

"Ingolby wants Lebanon and Manitou to come together, not to fall apart, "he declared. "He wants peace. If he gets rich here he won't get richalone. He's working for both towns. If he brings money from outside, that's good for both towns. If he--"

"Shut your mouth, let Ingolby speak for himself, " snarled the big river-driver. "Take his dollars out of your pocket and put them on the bar, the dollars Ingolby gives you to say all this. Put them dollars ofIngolby's up for drinks, or we'll give you a jar that'll shake you, oldwart-hog. "

At that instant a figure forced itself through the crowd, and broke intothe packed circle which was drawing closer upon the old man. 

It was Jethro Fawe. He flung a hand out towards the old man. 

"You want Ingolby--well, that's Ingolby, " he shouted. 

Like lightning the old man straightened himself, snatched the wig andbeard away from his head and face, and with quiet fearlessness said:

"Yes, I am Ingolby. "

For an instant there was absolute silence, in which Ingolby weighed hischances. He was among enemies. He had meant only to move among thecrowd to discover their attitude, to find things out for himself. He hadsucceeded, and his belief that Manitou could be swayed in the rightdirection if properly handled, was correct. Beneath the fanaticism andthe racial spirit was human nature; and until Jethro Fawe had appeared, he had hoped to prevent violence and the collision at to-morrow'sfuneral. 

Now the situation was all changed. It was hard to tell what sharp turnthings might take. He was about to speak, but suddenly from the crowdthere was spat out at him the words, "Spy! Sneak! Spy!"

Instantly the wave of feeling ran against him. He smiled frankly, however, with that droll twist of his mouth which had won so many, andthe raillery of his eyes was more friendly than any appeal. 

"Spy, if you like, my friends, " he said firmly and clearly. "Moses sentspies down into the Land of Promise, and they brought back big bunches ofgrapes. Well, I've come down into a land of promise. I wanted to knowjust how you all feel without being told it by some one else. I knew ifI came here as Max Ingolby I shouldn't hear the whole truth; I wouldn'tsee exactly how you see, so I came as one of you, and you must admit, myFrench is as good as yours almost. "

He laughed and nodded at them. 

"There wasn't one of you that knew I wasn't a Frenchman. That's in myfavour. If I know the French language as I do, and can talk to you inFrench as I've done, do you think I don't understand the French people, and what you want and how you feel? I'm one of the few men in the Westthat can talk your language. I learned it when I was a boy, so that Imight know my French fellow-countrymen under the same flag, with the sameKing and the same national hope. As for your religion, God knows, I wishI was as good a Protestant as lots of you are good Catholics. And I tellyou this, I'd be glad to have a minister that I could follow and respectand love as I respect and love Monseigneur Lourde of Manitou. I want tobring these two towns together, to make them a sign of what this countryis, and what it can do; to make hundreds like ourselves in Manitou andLebanon work together towards health, wealth, comfort and happiness. Can't you see, my friends, what I'm driving at? I'm for peace and workand wealth and power--not power for myself alone, but power that belongsto all of us. If I can show I'm a good man at my job, maybe better thanothers, then I have a right to ask you to follow me. If I can't, thenthrow me out. I tell you I'm your friend--Max Ingolby is your friend. "

"Spy! Spy! Spy!" cried a new voice. 

It came from behind the bar. An instant after, the owner of the voiceleaped up on the counter. It was Felix Marchand. He had entered by thedoor behind the bar into Barbazon's office. 

"When I was in India, " Marchand cried, "I found a snake in the bed. Ikilled it before it stung me. There's a snake in the bed of Manitou--what are you going to do with it?"

The men swayed, murmured, and shrill shouts of "Marchand! Marchand!Marchand !" went up. The crowd heaved upon Ingolby. "One minute!" hecalled with outstretched arm and commanding voice. They paused. Something in him made him master of them even then. 

At that moment two men were fiercely fighting their way through the crowdtowards where Ingolby was. They were Jowett and Osterhaut. Ingolby sawthem coming. 

"Go back--go back!" he called to them. 

Suddenly a drunken navvy standing on a table in front of and to the leftof Ingolby seized a horseshoe hanging on the wall, and flung it with anoath. 

It caught Ingolby in the forehead, and he fell to the floor without asound. 

A minute afterwards the bar was empty, save for Osterhaut, Jowett, oldBarbazon, and his assistants. 

Barbazon and Jowett lifted the motionless figure in their arms, andcarried it into a little room. 

Then Osterhaut picked up the horseshoe tied with its gay blue ribbons, now stained with blood, and put it in his pocket. 

"For luck, " he said. 

CHAPTER XI

THE SENTENCE OF THE PATRIN

Fleda waked suddenly, but without motion; just a wide opening of the eyesupon the darkness, and a swift beating of the heart, but not the movementof a muscle. It was as though some inward monitor, some gnome of thehidden life had whispered of danger to her slumbering spirit. The wakingwas a complete emergence, a vigilant and searching attention. 

There was something on her breast weighing it down, yet with a pressurewhich was not weight alone, and maybe was not weight at all as weight isunderstood. Instantly there flashed through her mind the primitivebelief that a cat will lie upon the breasts of children and suck theirbreath away. Strange and even absurd as it was, it seemed to her that acat was pressing and pressing down upon her breast. There could be nomistaking the feline presence. Now with a sudden energy of the body, shethrew the Thing from her, and heard it drop, with the softness of felinefeet, on the Indian rug upon the floor. 

Then she sprang out of bed, and, feeling for the matches, lit a candle onthe small table beside her bed, and moved it round searching for what shethought to be a cat. It was not to be seen. She looked under the bed;it was not there: under the washstand, under the chest of drawers, underthe improvised dressing-table; and no cat was to be found. She 173looked under the chair over which hung her clothes, even behind thedresses and the Indian deerskin cape hanging on the door. 

There was no life of any kind save her own in the room, so far as shecould see. She laughed nervously, though her heart was still beatinghard. That it should beat hard was absurd, for what had she to fear--shewho had lived the wild open-air life of many lands, had slept among hillsinfested by animals the enemy of man, and who when a little girl hadfaced beasts of prey alone. Yet here in her own safe room on theSagalac, with its four walls, but its unlocked doors--for Gabriel Drusesaid that he could not bear that last sign of his exile--here in thefortress of the town-dweller there was a strange trembling of her pulsesin the presence of a mere hallucination or nightmare--the first she hadhad ever. Her dreams in the past had always been happy and without theblack fancies of nightmare. On the night that Jethro Fawe had firstconfronted her father and herself, and he had been carried to the hut inthe Wood, her sleep had been disturbed and restless, but dreamless; inher sleep on the night of the day of his release, she had been tossedupon vague clouds of mental unrest; but that was the first reallydisordered sleep she had ever known. 

Holding the candle above her head, she looked in the mirror on herdressing-table, and laughed nervously at the shocked look in her eyes, at the hand pressed upon the bosom whose agitations troubled the delicatelinen at her breast. The pale light of the candle, the reflection fromthe white muslin of her dressing-table and her nightwear, the strange, deep darkness of her eyes, the ungathered tawny hair falling to hershoulders, gave an unusual paleness to her face. 

"What a ninny I am!" she said aloud as she looked at herself, her tonguechiding her apprehensive eyes, her laugh contemptuously adding itscomment on her tremulousness. "It was a real nightmare--a wakingnightmare, that's what it was. "

She searched the room once more, however-every corner, under the bed, thechest of drawers and the dressing-table, before she got into bed again, her feet icily cold. And yet again before settling down she lookedround, perplexed and inquiring. Placing the matches beside thecandlestick, she blew out the light. Then, half-turning on her side withher face to the wall, she composed herself to sleep. 

Resolutely putting from her mind any sense of the supernatural, she shuther eyes with confidence of coming sleep. While she was, however, stillwithin the borders of wakefulness, and wholly conscious, she felt theThing jump from the floor upon her legs, and crouch there with thatdeadening pressure which was not weight. Now with a start of anger sheraised herself, and shot out a determined hand to seize the Thing, whatever it was. Her hand grasped nothing, and again she distinctlyheard a soft thud as of something jumping on the floor. Exasperated, shedrew herself out of bed, lit the candle again, and began another search. Nothing was to be seen; but she had now the curious sense of an unseenpresence. She went to the door, opened it, and looked out into thenarrow hall. Nothing was to be seen there. Then she closed the dooragain, and stood looking at it meditatively for a moment. It had a lockand key; yet it had never been locked in the years they had lived on theSagalac. She did not know whether the key would turn in the lock. Aftera moment's hesitation, she shrugged her shoulders and turned the key. Itrasped, proved stubborn, but at last came home with a click. Then sheturned to the window. It was open about three inches at the bottom. Sheclosed it tight, and fastened it, then stood for a moment in the middleof the room looking at both door and window. 

She was conscious of a sense of suffocation. Never in her life had sheslept with door or window or tentflap entirely closed. Never before hadshe been shut in all night behind closed doors and sealed windows. Now, as the sense of imprisonment was felt, her body protested; her spiritresented the funereal embrace of security. It panted for the freedomwhich gives the challenge to danger and the courage to face it. 

She went to the window and opened it slightly at the top, and then soughther bed again; but even as she lay down, something whispered to her mindthat it was folly to lock the door and yet leave the window open, if itwas but an inch. With an exclamation of self-reproach, and a vagueindignation at something, she got up and closed the window once more. 

Again she composed herself to sleep, lying now with her face turned tothe window and the door. She was still sure that she had been the victimof a hallucination which, emerging from her sleep, had invaded theborders of wakefulness, and then had reproduced itself in a wakingillusion--an imitation of its original existence. 

Resolved to conquer any superstitious feeling, she invoked sleep, and wason its borders once more when she was startled more violently thanbefore. 

The Thing had sprung again upon her feet and was crouched there. Wideawake, she waited for a moment to make sure that she was not mad, or thatshe was not asleep or in a half-dream. In the pause, she felt the Thingdraw up towards her knees, dragging its body along with tiger-likecloseness, and with that strange pressure which was not weight but power. 

With a cry which was no longer doubt, but agonized apprehension, shethrew the Thing from her with a motion of both hands and feet; and, asshe did so, she felt a horrible cold air breathing from a bloodless body, chill her hand. 

In another instant she was on her feet again. With shaking fingers shelighted the candle yet once more, after which she lighted a lamp standingupon the chest of drawers. The room was almost brilliantly bright now. With a gesture of incredulity she looked round. The doors and windowswere sealed tight, and there was nothing to be seen; yet she was morethan ever conscious of a presence grown more manifest. For a moment shestood staring straight before her at the place where it seemed to be. She realized its malice and its hatred, and an intense anger and hatredtook possession of her. She had always laughed at such things even whenthrilled by wonder and manufactured terrors. But now there was a senseof conflict, of evil, of the indefinable things in which so manybelieved. 

Suddenly she remembered an ancient Sage of her tribe, who, proficient inmysteries and secret rites gathered from nations as old as Phoenicia andEgypt and as modern as Switzerland, held the Romanys of the world in awe, for his fame had travelled where he could not follow. To Fleda in herearliest days he had been like one inspired, and as she now stood facingthe intangible Thing, she recalled an exorcism which the Sage had recitedto her, when he had sufficiently startled her senses by tales of theBetween World. This exorcism was, as he had told her, more powerful thanthat which the Christian exorcists used, and the symbol of exorcism wasnot unlike the sign of the Cross, to which was added genuflection ofAssyrian origin. 

At any other time Fleda would have laughed at the idea of using theexorcism; but all the ancient superstition of the Romany people latent inher now broke forth and held her captive. Standing with candle raisedabove her head, her eyes piercing the space before her, she recalledevery word of the exorcism which had caught the drippings from thefountains of Chaldean, Phoenician, and Egyptian mystery. 

Solemnly and slowly the exorcism came from her lips, and at the end herright hand made the cabalistic sign; then she stood like one transfixedwith her arm extended towards the Thing she could not see. 

Presently there passed from her a sense of oppression. The air seemed togrow lighter, restored self-possession came; there was a gentle breathingin the room like that of a sleeping child. It was a moment before sherealized that the breathing was her own, and she looked round her likeone who had come out of a trance. 

"It is gone, " she said aloud. "It is gone. " A great sigh came from her. 

Mechanically she put down the candle, smoothed the pillows of her bed, adjusted the coverings, and prepared to lie down; but, with a suddenimpulse, she turned to the window and the door. 

"It is gone, " she said again. With a little laugh of hushed triumph, sheturned and made again the cabalistic sign at the bed, where the Thing hadfirst assaulted her, and then at that point in the room near the doorwhere she had felt it crouching. 

"Oh, Ewie Gal, " she added, speaking to that Romany Sage long since laidto rest in the Roumelian country, "you did not talk to me for nothing. You were right--yes, you were right, old Ewie Gal. It was there, "--shelooked again at the place where the Thing had been--"and your curse droveit away. "

With confidence she went to the door and unlocked it. Going to thewindow she opened it also, but she compromised sufficiently to open itat the top instead of at the bottom. Presently she laid her head on herpillow with a sigh of content. 

Once again she composed herself to sleep in the darkness. But now therecame other invasions, other disturbers of the night. In her imaginationa man came who had held her in his arms one day on the Sagalac River, whohad looked into her eyes with a masterful but respectful tenderness. Asshe neared the confines of sleep, he was somehow mingled with visions ofthings which her childhood had known--moonlit passes in the Bosnian, Roumelian, and Roumanian hills, green fields by the Danube, with peasantvoices drowsing in song before the lights went out; a gallop after dundeer far away up the Caspian mountains, over waste places, carpeted withflowers after a benevolent rain; mornings in Egypt, when the camelsthudded and slid with melancholy ease through the sands of the desert, while the Arab drivers called shrilly for Allah to curse or bless; atender sunset in England seen from the top of a castle when all thewestern sky was lightly draped with saffron, gold and mauve and delicategreen and purple. 

Now she slept again, with the murmur of the Sagalac in her ears, andthere was a smile at her lips. If one could have seen her through thedarkness, one would have said that she was like some wild creature of avirgin world, whom sleep had captured and tamed; for, behind therefinement which education and the vigilant influence with which MadameBulteel had surrounded her, there was in her the spirit of primitivethings: of the open road and the wilderness, of the undisciplined andvagrant life, however marked by such luxury as the ruler of all theRomanys could buy and use in pilgrimage. There was that in her whichwould drag at her footsteps in this new life. 

For a full hour or more she slept, then there crept through the fantasiesof sleep something that did not belong to sleep--again something from thewakeful world, strange, alien, troubling. At first it was only as thougha wind stirred the air of dreams, then it was like the sounds that gatherbehind the coming rage of a storm, and again it was as though a night-prowler plucked at the sleeve of a home-goer. Presently, with a stir offright and a smothered cry, she waked to a sound which was not of thesupernatural or of the mind's illusions, but no less dreadful to herbecause of that. In some cryptic way it was associated with the direfulexperience through which she had just passed. 

What she heard in the darkness was a voice which sang there by herwindow--at it or beneath it--the words of a Romany song. 

It was a song of violence, which she had heard but a short time before inthe trees behind her father's house, when a Romany claimed her as hiswife:

 "Time was I went to my true love, Time was she came to me--"

Only one man would sing that song at her window, or anywhere in thisWestern world. This was no illusion of her overwrought senses. There, outside her window, was Jethro Fawe. 

She sat up and listened, leaning on one arm, and staring into the half-darkness beyond the window, the blind of which she had not drawn down. There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, relieving theintensity of the dark. Through the whispering of the trees, and hushingthe melancholy of a night-bird's song, came the wild low note of theRomany epic of vengeance. It had a thrill of exultation. Something inthe voice, insistent, vibrating, personal, made every note a thrust ofvictory. In spite of her indignation at the insolent serenade, shethrilled; for the strain of the Past was in her, and it had been fightingwith her all night, breaking in upon the Present, tugging at the cords ofyouth. 

The man's daring roused her admiration, even as her anger mounted. Ifher father heard the singing, there could be no doubt that Jethro Fawe'sdoom would be sealed. Gabriel Druse would resent this insolence to thedaughter of the Ry of Rys. Word would be passed as silently as theelectric spark flies, and one day Jethro Fawe would be found dead, withno clue to his slayer, and maybe no sign of violence upon him; for whilethe Romany people had remedies as old as Buddha, they had poisons as oldas Sekhet. 

Suddenly the song ceased, and for a moment there was silence save for thewhispering trees and the night-bird's song. Fleda rose from her bed, andwas about to put on her dressing-gown, when she was startled by a voiceloudly whispering her name at her window, as it seemed. 

"Daughter of the Ry of Rys !" it called. 

In anger she started forward to the window, then, realizing that she wasin her nightgown, caught up her red dressing-gown and put it on. As shedid so she understood why the voice had sounded so near. Not thirty feetfrom her window there was a solitary oak-tree among the pines, in whichwas a seat among the branches, and, looking out, she could see a figurethat blackened the starlit duskiness. 

"Fleda--daughter of the Ry of Rys, " the voice called again. 

She gathered her dressing-gown tight about her, and, going to the window, raised it high and leaned out. 

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. 

"Wife of Jethro Fawe, I bring you news, " the voice said, and she saw ahat waved with mock courtesy. In spite of herself, Fleda felt a shiverof premonition pass through her. The Thing which had threatened her inthe night seemed to her now like the soul of this dark spirit in thetrees. 

Resentment seized her. "I have news for you, Jethro Fawe, " she replied. "I set you free, and I gave my word that no harm should come to you, ifyou went your ways and did not come again. You have come, and I shall donothing now to save you from the Ry's anger. Go at once, or I will wakehim. "

"Will a wife betray her husband?" he asked in soft derision. 

Stung by his insolence, "I would not throw a rope to you, if you weredrowning, " she declared. "I am a Gorgio, and the thing that was done bythe Starzke River is nothing to me. Now, go. "

"You have forgotten my news, " he said: "It is bad news for the Gorgiodaughter of the Romany Ry. " She was silent in apprehension. He waited, but she did not speak. 

"The Gorgio of Gorgios of the Sagalac has had a fall, " he said. 

Her heart beat fast for an instant, and then the presentiment came to herthat the man spoke the truth. In the presence of the accomplished thing, she became calm. 

"What has happened?" she asked quietly. 

"He went prowling in Manitou, and in Barbazon's Tavern they struck himdown. "

"Who struck him down?" she asked. It seemed to her that the night-birdsang so loud that she could scarcely hear her own voice. 

"A drunken Gorgio, " he replied. "The horseshoe is for luck all the worldover, and it brought its luck to Manitou to-night. It struck down ayoung Master Gorgio who in white beard and long grey hair went spying. "

She knew in her heart that he spoke the truth. "He is dead?" she askedin a voice that had a strange quietness. 

"Not yet, " he answered. "There is time to wish him luck. "

She heard the ribald laugh with a sense of horror and loathing. "Thehand that brought him down may have been the hand of a Gorgio, but behindthe hand was Jethro Fawe, " she said in a voice grown passionate again. "Where is he?" she added. 

"At his own house. I watched them take him there. It is a nice house--good enough for a Gorgio house-dweller. I know it well. Last night Iplayed his Sarasate fiddle for him there, and I told him all about youand me, and what happened at Starzke, and then--"

"You told him I was a Romany, that I was married to you?" she asked in alow voice. 

"I told him that, and asked him why he thought you had deceived him, hadheld from him the truth. He was angry and tried to kill me. "

"That is a lie, " she answered. "If he had tried to kill you he wouldhave done so. "

Suddenly she realized the situation as it was--that she was standing ather window in the night, scantily robed, talking to a man in a treeopposite her window; and that the man had done a thing which belonged tothe wild places which she had left so far behind. 

It flashed into her mind--what would Max Ingolby think of such a thing?She flushed. The new Gorgio self of her flushed, and yet the old Romanyself, the child of race and heredity had taken no exact account of thestrangeness of this situation. It had not seemed unnatural. Even if hehad been in her room itself, she would have felt no tithe of the shamethat she felt now in asking herself what the Master Gorgio would think, if he knew. It was not that she had less modesty, that any stir of sexwas in her veins where the Romany chal was concerned; but in the life shehad once lived less delicate cognizance was taken of such things, andsomething of it stayed. 

"Listen, " Jethro said with sudden lowering of the voice, and impartinginto his tones an emotion which was in part an actor's gift, but also inlarge degree a passion now eating at his heart, "you are my wife by allthe laws of our people. Nothing can change it. I have waited for you, and I will wait, but you shall be mine in the end. You see to-night--'Mi Duvel', you see that fate is with me! The Gorgio has bewitched you. He goes down to-night in that tavern there by the hand of a Gorgio, andthe Romany has his revenge. Fate is always with me, and I will be thegift of the gods to the woman that takes me. The luck is mine always. It will be always with me. I am poor to-day, I shall be rich to-morrow. I was rich, and I lost it all; and I was poor, and became rich again. Ah, yes, there are ways! Sometimes it is a Government, sometimes aprince that wants to know, and Jethro Fawe, the Romany, finds it out, andmoney fills his pockets. I am here, poor, because last year when I lostall, I said, 'It is because my Romany lass is not with me. I have notbrought her to my tan, but when she comes then the gold will be here asbefore, and more when it is wanted. ' So, I came, and I hear the roadcalling, and all the camping places over all the world, and I see thepatrins in every lane, and my heart is lifted up. I am glad. I rejoice. My heart burns with love. I will forget everything, and be true to thequeen of my soul. Men die, and Gabriel Druse, he will die one day, andwhen the time comes, then it would be that you and I would beckon, andall the world would come to us. "

He stretched out a hand to her in the half-darkness. "I send the bloodof my heart to you, " he continued. "I am a son of kings. Fleda, daughter of the Ry of Rys, come to me. I have been bad, but I can begood. I have killed, but I will live at peace. I have cursed, but Iwill speak the word of blessing. I have trespassed, but I will keep tomy own, if you will come to me. "

Suddenly he dropped to the ground, lighting on his feet like an animalwith a soft rebound. Stretching up his arms, he made soft murmuring ofendearment. 

She had listened, fascinated in spite of herself by the fire and meaningof his words. She felt that in most part it was true, that it was meant;and, whatever he was, he was yet a man offering his heart and life, offering a love that she despised, and yet which was love and passion ofa kind. It was a passion natural to the people from whom she came, andto such as Jethro Fawe it was something more than sensual longing and theaboriginal desire of possession. She realized it, and was not whollyrevolted by it, even while her mind was fleeing to where the MasterGorgio lay wounded, it might be unto death; even while she knew that thisman before her, by some means, had laid Ingolby low. She was all at oncea human being torn by contending forces. 

Jethro's drop to the ground broke the sudden trance into which his wordshad thrown her. She shook herself as with an effort of control. Thenleaning over the window-sill, and, looking down at him, now grown sodistinct that she could see his features, her eyes having become used tothe half-light of the approaching dawn, she said with something almostlike gentleness:

"Once more I say, you must go and come no more. You are too far off fromme. You belong to that which is for the ignorant, or the low, thevicious and the bad. Behind the free life of the Romany is only thething that the beasts of the field have. I have done with it for ever. Find a Romany who will marry you. As for me, I would rather die than doso, and I should die before it could come to pass. If you stay herelonger I will call the Ry. "

Presently the feeling that he had been responsible for the disaster toIngolby came upon her with great force, and as suddenly as she hadsoftened towards this man she hardened again. 

"Go, before there comes to you the death you deserve, " she added, andturned away. 

At that moment footsteps sounded near, and almost instantly there emergedfrom a pathway which made a short cut to the house, the figure of oldGabriel Druse. They had not heard him till he was within a few feet ofwhere Jethro Fawe stood. His walking had been muffled in the dust of thepathway. 

The Ry started when he saw Jethro Fawe; then he made a motion as thoughhe would seize the intruder, who was too dumbfounded to flee; but herecovered himself, and gazed up at the open window. 

"Fleda!" he called. 

She came to the window again. 

"Has this man come here against your will?" he asked, not as thoughseeking information, but confirmation of his own understanding. 

"He is not here by my will, " she answered. "He came to sing the Song ofHate under my window, to tell me that he had--"

"That I had brought the Master Gorgio to the ground, " said Jethro, whonow stood with sullen passiveness looking at Gabriel Druse. 

"From the Master Gorgio, as you call him, I have just come, " returned theold man. "When I heard the news, I went to him. It was you who betrayedhim to the mob, and--"

"Wait, wait, " Fleda cried in agitation. "Is--is he dead?"

"He is alive, but terribly hurt; and he may die, " was the reply. 

Then the old man turned to the Romany with a great anger anddetermination in his face. He stretched out an arm, making a sign ascabalistic as that which Fleda had used against her invisible foe in thebedroom. 

"Go, Jethro Fawe of all the Fawes, " he said. "Go, and may no patrinsmark your road!"

Jethro Fawe shrank back, and half raised his arm, as though to fendhimself from a blow. 

The patrin is the clue which Gipsies leave behind them on the road theygo, that other Gipsies who travel in it may know they have gone before. It may be a piece of string, a thread of wool, a twig, or in the dust theancient cross of the Romany, which preceded the Christian cross andbelonged to the Assyrian or Phoenician world. The invocation that nopatrins shall mark the road of a Romany is to make him an outcast, andfor the Ry of Rys to utter the curse is sentence of death upon a Romany, for thenceforward every hand of his race is against him, free to do himharm. 

It was that which made Jethro Fawe shrink and cower for a moment. Fledaraised her hand suddenly in protest to Gabriel Druse. 

"No, no, not that, " Fleda murmured brokenly to her father, with eyes thatlooked the pain and horror she felt. Though she repudiated the bond bywhich the barbarian had dared to call her wife, she heard an inner voicethat said to her: "What was done by the Starzke River was the seal ofblood and race, and this man must be nearer than the stranger, dearerthan the kinsman, forgiven of his crimes like a brother, saved fromshame, danger or death when she who was sealed to him can save him. "

She shuddered as she heard the inner voice. She felt that this OtherSelf of her, the inner-seeing soul which had the secret of the far paths, had spoken truly. Even as she begged her father to withdraw thesentence, it flashed into her mind that the grim Thing of the night wasthe dark spirit of hatred between Jethro Fawe and the Master Gorgioseeking embodiment, as though Jethro's evil soul detached itself from hisbody to persecute her. 

At her appeal, Jethro raised his head. His courage came back, the oldinsolent self-possession took hold of him again. The sentence which theRy had passed was worse than death (and it meant death, too), for it madehim an outcast from his people, and to be outcast was to be thrown intothe abyss. It was as though a man without race or country was banishedinto desolate space. In a vague way he felt its full significance, andthe shadow of it fell on him. 

"No, no, no, " Fleda repeated hoarsely, with that new sense ofresponsibility where Jethro was concerned. 

Jethro's eyes were turned upon her now. In the starlit night, justyielding to the dawn, she could faintly see his burning look, could feel, as it were, his hands reach out to claim her; and she felt that while helived she was not wholly free. She realized that the hand of nomad, disorderly barbarism was dragging her with a force which was inhuman, or, maybe, superhuman. 

Gabriel Druse could know nothing of the elements fighting in hisdaughter's soul; he only knew that her interest in the Master Gorgio wasone he had never seen before, and that she abhorred the Romany who hadbrought Ingolby low. He had shut his eyes to the man's unruliness andhis daughter's intervention to free him; but now he was without pity. Hehad come from Ingolby's bedside, and had been told a thing which shookhis rugged nature to its centre--a thing sad as death itself, which hemust tell his daughter. 

To Fleda's appeal he turned a stony face. There was none of that rage inhis words which had marked the scene when Jethro Fawe first came to claimwhat he could not have. There was something in him now more deadly andinevitable. It made him like some figure of mythology, implacable, fateful. His great height, his bushy beard and stormy forehead, the eyesover which shaggy eyebrows hung like the shrubs on a cliff-edge, his facelined and set like a thing in bronze--all were signs of a power which, inpassion, would be like that of OEdipus: in the moment of justice or doomwould, with unblinking eyes, slay and cast aside as debris is tossed uponthe dust-heap. 

As he spoke now his voice was toneless. His mind was flint, and histongue was but the flash of the flint. He looked at his daughter for amoment with no light of fatherhood in his face, then turned from her toJethro Fawe with slow decision and a gesture of authority. His eyesfastened on the face of the son of Lemuel Fawe, as though it was thatold enemy himself. 

"I have said what I have said, and there is no more to be spoken. Therule of the Ry will be as water for ever after if these things may bedone to him and his. For generations have the Rys of all the Rys beenlike the trees that bend only to the whirlwind; and when they speak thereis no more to be said. When it ceases to be so, then the Rys will vanishfrom the world, and be as stubble of the field ready for the burning. Ihave spoken. Go! And no patrins shall lie upon your road. "

A look of savage obedience and sullen acquiescence came into JethroFawe's face, and he took off his hat as one who stands in the presence ofhis master. The strain of generations, the tradition of the race withouta country was stronger than the revolt in his soul. He was young, hisblood was hot and brawling in his veins, he was all carnal, with thesuperior intelligence of the trained animal, but custom was stronger thanall. He knew now that whatever he might do, some time, not far, his doomwould fall upon him suddenly, as a wind shoots up a ravine from thedesert, or a nightbird rises from the dark. 

He set his feet stubbornly, and raised his sullen face and fanaticaleyes. The light of morning was creeping through the starshine, and hisfeatures showed plainly. 

"I am your daughter's husband, " he said. "Nothing can change that. Itwas done by the River Starzke, and it was the word of the Ry of Rys. Itstands for ever. There is no divorce except death for the Romany. "

"The patrins cease to mark the way, " returned the old man with a swiftgesture. "The divorce of death will come. "

Jethro's face grew still paler, and he opened his lips to speak, butpaused, seeing Fleda, with a backward look of pity and of horror, drawback into the darkness of her room. 

He made a motion of passion and despair. His voice was almost shrillwhen he spoke. "Till that divorce comes, the daughter of the Ry of Rysis mine!" he cried sharply. "I will not give my wife to a Gorgio thief. His hands shall not caress her, his eyes shall not feed upon her--"

"His eyes will not feed upon her, " interrupted the old man, "So ceasethe prattle which can alter nothing. Begone. "

For a moment Jethro Fawe stood like one who did not understand what wassaid to him, but suddenly a look of triumph and malice came into hisface, and his eyes lighted with a reckless fire. He threw back his head, and laughed with a strange, offensive softness. Then, waving a hand tothe window from which Fleda had gone, he swung his cap on his head andplunged into the trees. 

A moment afterwards his voice came back exultingly, through the morningair:

 "But a Gorgio sleeps 'neath the greenwood tree He'll broach my tan no more: And my love, she sleeps afar from me But near to the churchyard door. "

As the old man turned heavily towards the house, and opened the outerdoor, Fleda met him. 

"What did you mean when you said that Ingolby's eyes would not feed uponme?" she asked in a low tone of fear. 

A look of compassion came into the old man's face. He took her hand. 

"Come and I will tell you, " he said. 

CHAPTER XII

"LET THERE BE LIGHT"

In Ingolby's bedroom, on the night of the business at Barbazon's Tavern, Dr. Rockwell received a shock. His face, naturally colourless, wasalmost white, and his eyes were moist. He had what the West callednerve. That the crisis through which he had passed was that of afriend's life did not lessen the poignancy of the experience. He had asingularly reserved manner and a rare economy of words; also, he had therefinement and distinction of one who had, oforetime, moved on the higherranges of social life. He was always simply and comfortably and in asense fashionably dressed, yet there was nothing of the dude about him, and his black satin tie gave him an air of old-worldishness which somehowcompelled an extra amount of respect. This, in spite of the fact that hehad been known as one who had left the East and come into the wildsbecause of a woman not his wife. 

It was not, however, strictly true to say that he had come West becauseof a woman, for it was on account of three women, who by suddencoincidence or collusion sprang a situation from which the only reliefwas flight. In that he took refuge, not because he was a coward, butbecause it was folly to fight a woman, or three women, and because it wasthe only real solution of an ungovernable situation. At first he haddrifted from one town to another, dissolute and reckless, apparentlyunable to settle down, or to forget the unwholesome three. But one daythere was a terrible railway accident on a construction train, andLebanon and Manitou made a call upon his skill, and held him in bondageto his profession for one whole month. During this time he performed twooperations which the surgeons who had been sent out by the RailwayDirectors at Montreal declared were masterpieces. 

When that month was up he was a changed man, and he opened an office inLebanon. Men trusted him despite his past, and women learned that therewas never a moment when his pulses beat unevenly in their presence. Nathan Rockwell had had his lesson and it was not necessary to learn itagain. To him, woman, save as a subject of his skill, was a closed book. He regarded them as he regarded himself, with a kindly cynicism. Henever forgot that his own trouble could and would have been avoided hadit not been for woman's vanity and consequent cruelty. The unwholesomethree had shared his moral lapse with wide-open eyes, and were in nosense victims of his; but, disregarding their responsibility, they had, from sheer jealousy, wrecked his past, and, to their own surprise, hadwrecked themselves as well. They were of those who act first and thenthink--too late. 

Thus it was that both men and women called Rockwell a handsome man, butthought of him as having only a crater of exhausted fires in place of aheart. They came to him with their troubles--even the women of Manitouwho ought to have gone to the priest. 

He moved about Lebanon as one who had authority, and desired not to useit; as one to whom life was like a case in surgery to be treated withscientific, coolness, with humanity, but not with undue sympathy; yet theearly morning of the day after Ingolby had had his accident at Barbazon'sHotel found him the slave of an emotion which shook him from head tofoot. He had saved his friend's life by a most skilful operation, but hehad been shocked beyond control when, an hour after the operation wasover, and consciousness returned to the patient in the brilliantlylighted room, Ingolby said:

"Why don't you turn on the light?"

It was thus Rockwell knew that the Master Man, the friend of Lebanon andManitou, was stone blind. When Ingolby's voice ceased, a horrifiedsilence filled the room for a moment. Even Jim Beadle, his servant, standing at the foot of the bed, clapped a hand to his mouth to stop acry, and the nurse turned as white as the apron she wore. 

Dumbfounded as Rockwell was, with instant professional presence of mindhe said:

"No, Ingolby, you must be kept in darkness a while yet. " Then he whippedout a silk handkerchief from his pocket. "We will have light, " hecontinued, "but we must bandage you first to keep out the glare andprevent pain. The nerves of the eyes have been injured. "

Hastily and tenderly he bound the handkerchief round the sightless eyes. Having done so, he said to the nurse with unintentional quotation fromthe Gospel of St. John, and a sad irony: "Let there be light. "

It all gave him time to pull himself together and prepare for the momentwhen he must tell Ingolby the truth. In one sense the sooner it was toldthe better, lest Ingolby should suddenly discover it for himself. Surprise and shock must be avoided. So now he talked in his low, soothing voice, telling Ingolby that the operation had put him out ofdanger, that the pain now felt came chiefly from the nerves of the eye, and that quiet and darkness were necessary. He insisted on Ingolbykeeping silent, and he gave a mild opiate which induced several hours'sleep. 

During this time Rockwell prepared himself for the ordeal which must bepassed as soon as possible; gave all needed directions, and had aconference with the assistant Chief Constable to whom he confided thetruth. He suggested plans for preserving order in excited Lebanon, whichwas determined to revenge itself on Manitou; and he gave some careful andspecific instructions to Jowett the horse-dealer. Also, he had conferredwith Gabriel Druse, who had helped bear the injured man to his own home. He had noted with admiration the strange gentleness of the giant Romanyas he, alone, carried Ingolby in his arms, and laid him on the bed fromwhich he was to rise with all that he had fought for overthrown, himselfthe blind victim of a hard fate. He had noticed the old man straightenhimself with a spring and stand as though petrified when Ingolby said:"Why don't you turn on the light?" As he looked round in that instant ofghastly silence he had observed almost mechanically that the old man'slips were murmuring something. Then the thought of Fleda Druse shot intoRockwell's mind, and it harassed him during the hours Ingolby slept, andafter the giant Gipsy had taken his departure just before the dawn. 

"I'm afraid it will mean more there than anywhere else, " he said sadly tohimself. "There was evidently something between those two; and she isn'tthe kind to take it philosophically. Poor girl! Poor girl! It's abitter dose, if there was anything in it, " he added. 

He watched beside the sick-bed till the dawn stared in and his patientstirred and waked, then he took Ingolby's hand, grown a little cooler, in both his own. "How are you feeling, old man?" he asked cheerfully. "You've had a good sleep-nearly three and a half hours. Is the pain inthe head less?"

"Better, Sawbones, better, " Ingolby replied cheerfully. "They'veloosened the tie that binds--begad, it did stretch the nerves. I hadgripes of colic once, but the pain I had in my head was twenty timesworse, till you gave the opiate. "

"That's the eyes, " said Rockwell. "I had to lift a bit of bone, and theeyes saw it and felt it, and cried out-shrieked, you might say. They'vegot a sensitiveness all their own, have the eyes. "

"It's odd there aren't more accidents to them, " answered Ingolby--"just alittle ball of iridescent pulp with strings tied to the brain. "

"And what hurts the head may destroy the eyes sometimes, " Rockwellanswered cautiously. "We know so little of the delicate union betweenthem, that we can't be sure we can put the eyes right again when, becauseof some blow to the head, the ricochet puts the eyes out of commission. "

"That's what's the matter with me, then?" asked Ingolby, feeling thebandage on his eyes feverishly, and stirring in his bed with a sense ofweariness. 

"Yes, the ricochet got them, and has put them out of commission, " repliedRockwell, carefully dwelling upon each word, and giving a note of meaningto his tone. 

Ingolby raised himself in bed, but Rockwell gently forced him down again. "Will my eyes have to be kept bandaged long? Shall I have to give upwork for any length of time?" Ingolby asked. 

"Longer than you'll like, " was the enigmatical reply. "It's the devil'sown business, " was the weary answer. "Every minute's valuable to me now. I ought to be on deck morning, noon, and night. There's all the troublebetween the two towns; there's the strike on hand; there's that businessof the Orange funeral, and more than all a thousand times, there's--"he paused. 

He was going to say, "There's that devil Marchand's designs on mybridge, " but he thought better of it and stopped. It had been hisintention to deal with Marchand directly, to get a settlement of theirdifferences without resort to the law, to prevent the criminal actwithout deepening a feud which might keep the two towns apart for years. Bad as Marchand was, to prevent his crime was far better than punishinghim for it afterwards. To have Marchand arrested for conspiracy tocommit a crime was a business which would gravely interfere with hisfreedom of motion in the near future, would create complications whichmight cripple his own purposes in indirect ways. That was why he haddeclared to Jowett that even Felix Marchand had his price, and that hewould try negotiations first. 

But what troubled him now, as he lay with eyes bandaged and a knowledgethat to-morrow was the day fixed for the destruction of the bridge, washis own incapacity. It was unlikely that his head or his eyes would beright by to-morrow, or that Rockwell would allow him to get up. He feltin his own mind that the injury he had received was a serious one, andthat the lucky horseshoe had done Maxchand's work for him all too well. This thought shook him. Rockwell could see his chest heave with anexcitement gravely injurious to his condition; yet he must be told theworst, or the shock of discovery by himself that he was blind might givehim brain fever. Rockwell felt that he must hasten the crisis. 

"Rockwell, " Ingolby suddenly asked, "is there any chance of my discardingthis and getting out to-morrow?" He touched the handkerchief round hiseyes. "It doesn't matter about the head bandages, but the eyes--can't Islough the wraps to-morrow? I feel scarcely any pain now. "

"Yes, you can get rid of the bandages to-morrow--you can get rid of themto-day, if you really wish, " Rockwell answered, closing in on the lastdefence. 

"But I don't mind being in the dark to-day if it'll make me fitter forto-morrow and get me right sooner. I'm not a fool. There's too muchcarelessness about such things. People often don't give themselves achance to get right by being in too big a hurry. So, keep me in darknessto-day, if you want to, old man. For a hustler I'm not in too big ahurry, you see. I'm for holding back to get a bigger jump. "

"You can't be in a big hurry, even if you want to, Ingolby, " rejoinedRockwell, gripping the wrist of the sick man, and leaning over him. 

Ingolby grew suddenly very still. It was as though vague fear had seizedhim and held him in a vice. "What is it? What do you want to say tome?" he asked in a low, nerveless tone. 

"You've been hit hard, Chief. The ricochet has done you up for sometime. The head will soon get well, but I'm far from sure about youreyes. You've got to have a specialist about them. You're in the dark, and as for making you see, so am I. Your eyes and you are out ofcommission for some time, anyhow. "

He leaned over hastily, but softly and deftly undid the bandages over theeyes and took them off. "It's seven in the morning, and the sun's up, Chief, but it doesn't do you much good, you see. "

The last two words were the purest accident, but it was a strange, mournful irony, and Rockwell flushed at the thought of it. He sawIngolby's face turn grey, and then become white as death itself. 

"I see, " came from the bluish-white lips, as the stricken man made callon all the will and vital strength in him. 

For a long minute Rockwell held the cold hand in the grasp of one wholoves and grieves, but even so the physician and surgeon in him wereuppermost, as they should be, in the hour when his friend was standing onthe brink of despair, maybe of catastrophe irremediable. He did not saya word yet, however. In such moments the vocal are dumb and the blindsee. 

Ingolby heaved himself in the bed and threw up his arms, wresting themfrom Rockwell's grasp. 

"My God--oh, my God-blind!" he cried in agony. Rockwell drew the headwith the sightless eyes to his shoulder. 

For a moment he laid one hand on the heart, that, suddenly still, nowwent leaping under his fingers. "Steady, " he said firmly. "Steady. Itmay be only temporary. Keep your head up to the storm. We'll have aspecialist, and you must not get mired till then. Steady, Chief. "

"Chief! Chief!" murmured Ingolby. "Dear God, what a chief! I riskedeverything, and I've lost everything by my own vanity. Barbazon's--thehorseshoe--among the wolves, just to show I could do things better thanany one else--as if I had the patent for setting the world right. Andnow--now--"

The thought of the bridge, of Marchand's devilish design, shot into hismind, and once more he was shaken. "The bridge! Blind! Mother!" hecalled in a voice twisted in an agony which only those can feel to whomlife's purposes are even more than life itself. Then, with a moan, hebecame unconscious, and his head rolled over against Rockwell's cheek. The damp of his brow was as the damp of death as Rockwell's lips touchedit. 

"Old boy, old boy!" Rockwell said tenderly, "I wish it had been meinstead. Life means so much to you--and so little to me. I've seen toomuch, and you've only just begun to see. "

Laying him gently down, Rockwell summoned the nurse and Jim Beadle andspoke to them in low tones. "He knows now, and it has hit him hard, butnot so hard that he won't stiffen to it. It might have been worse. "

He gave instructions as to the care that should be taken, and replacedthe bandages on the eyes. It was, however, long before Ingolby wasrestored to consciousness, and when it came, Rockwell put to his lips acooling drink containing a powerful opiate. Ingolby drank it withoutprotest and in silence. He was like one whose sense of life wasautomatic and of an inner rather than an outer understanding. But whenhe lay back on the pillow again, he said slowly:

"I want the Chief Constable to come here to-night at eight o'clock. Itwill be dark then. He must come. It is important. Will you see to it, Rockwell?"

He thrust out a hand as though to find Rockwell's, and there was agratitude and an appeal in the pressure of his fingers which went toRockwell's heart. 

"All right, Chief. I'll have him here, " Rockwell answered briskly, butwith tears standing in his eyes. Ingolby had, as it were, been strickenout of the active, sentient, companionable world into a world where hewas alone, detached, solitary. His being seemed suspended in anatmosphere of misery and helplessness. 

"Blind! I am blind!" That was the phrase which kept beating with thepulses in Ingolby's veins, that throbbed, and throbbed, and throbbed likeengines in a creaking ship which the storm was shaking and pounding inthe vast seas between the worlds. Here was the one incomprehensible, stupefying fact: nothing else mattered. Every plan he had ever had, every design which he had made his own by an originality that even hisfoes acknowledged, were passing before his brain in swift procession, shining, magnified, and magnificent, and in that sudden clear-seeing ofhis soul he beheld their full value, their exact concrete force andultimate effect. Yet he knew himself detached from them, inactive, incapable, because he could not see with the eyes of the body. The greatessential thing to him was that one thing he had lost. A man might be acripple and still direct the great concerns of life and the business oflife. He might be shorn of limb and scarred of body, but with eye sightstill direct the courses of great schemes, in whatever sphere of life hispurposes were at work. He might be deaf to every sound and forever dumb, but seeing enabled him still to carry forward every enterprise. Indarkness, however, those things were naught, because judgment must dependon the eyes and senses of others. The report might be true or false, thedeputy might deceive, and his blind chief might never know the truthunless some other spectator of his schemes should report it; and thetruth could not surely be checked, save by some one, perhaps, whose lifewas joined to his, by one that truly loved him, whose fate was his. 

His brain was afire. By one that truly loved him! Who was there thatloved him? Who was there at one with him in all his deep designs, in allhe had done and meant to do? Neither brother, nor sister, nor friend, nor any other. None of his blood was there who could share with him theconstructive work he had set out to do. There was no friend whose fatewas part of his own. There was the Boss Doctor: but Rockwell was tied tohis own responsibilities, and he could not give up, of course, would notgive up his life to the schemes of another. There were a dozen men whomhe had helped to forge ahead by his own schemes, but their destinies werenot linked with his. Only one whose life was linked with his could betrusted to be his eyes, to be the true reporter of all he did, had done, or planned to do. Only one who loved him. 

But even one who loved him could not carry through his incompleted workagainst the assaults of his enemies, who were powerful, watchful, astute, and merciless; who had a greed which set money higher than all else inthe world. They were of the new order of things in the New World. Thebusiness of life was to them not a system of barter and exchange, agiving something of value to get something of value, with a margin ofprofit for each, and a sense of human equity behind; it was a cockpitwhere one man sought to get what another man had--and get it almostanyhow. 

It was the work of the faro-bank man, whose sleight of hand deceived theman that carried the gun. 

All the old humanity and good-fellowship of the trader, the man whoexchanged, as it was in the olden days of the world and continued ingreater or less degree till the present generation--all that was gone. It was held in contempt. It had prevailed when men were open robbers andfilibusters and warriors, giving their lives, if need be, to get whatthey wanted, making force their god. It had triumphed over the violenceand robbery of the open road until the dying years of one century and theyoung years of a new century. Then the day of the trickster came--andmen laughed at the idea of fair exchange and strove to give an illusivevalue for a thing of real value--the remorseless sleight of hand whichthe law could not reach. The desire to get profit by honest toiling wasdying down to ashes. 

Against such men had Ingolby worked--the tricksters, the manipulators. At the basis of his schemes was organization and the economy whichconcentrated and conserved energy begets, together with its profit. He had been the enemy of waste, the apostle of frugality and thrift;and it was that which had enabled him, in his short career, to win theconfidence of the big men behind him in Montreal, to make good everystep of the way. He had worked for profit out of legitimate productand industry and enterprise, out of the elimination of waste. It was histheory (and his practice) that no bit of old iron, no bolt or screw, noscrap of paper should be thrown away; that the cinders of the enginescould and should be utilized for that which they would make; and that waswhy there was a paper-mill and foundry on the Sagalac at Manitou. Thatwas why and how, so far, he had beaten the tricksters. 

But while his schemes flashed before his mind, as the opiate suspendedhim in the middle heaven between sleep and waking, the tricksters andmanipulators came hurrying after him like marauders that waited for themoment when they could rush the camp in the watches of the night. Hisdisordered imagination saw the ruin and wreck of his work, the seizure ofwhat was his own--the place of control on his railways, the place of theMaster Man who cared infinitely more to see his designs accomplished thanfor the profit they would bring to himself. Yesterday he had been justat the top of the hill. The key in his fingers was turning in the lockwhich would make safe the securities of his life and career, when itsnapped, and the world grew dark as the black curtain fell and shut outthe lighted room from the wayfarer in the gloom. Then, it was, came theopaque blackness which could be felt, and his voice calling in despair:"Blind! I am blind!"

He did not know that he had taken an opiate, that his friend hadmercifully atrophied his rebellious nerves. These visions he was seeingwere terribly true, but they somehow gave him no physical torture. Itwas as though one saw an operation performed upon one's body with thenerves stilled and deadened by ether. Yet he was cruelly conscious ofthe disaster which had come to him. For a time at least. Then his mindseemed less acute, the visions came, then without seeing them go, theywent. And others came in broken patches, shreds, and dreams, phantasmagoria of the brain, and at last all were mingled and confused;but as they passed they seemed to burn his sight. How he longed for acool bandage over his eyes, for a soft linen which would shut out thecumuli of broken hopes and designs, life's goals obliterated! He had hadenough of the black procession of futile things. 

His longing was not denied, for even as he roused himself from theoblivion coming on him, as though by a last effort to remember his diremisfortune, maybe his everlasting tragedy, something soothing and softlike linen dipped in dew was laid upon his forehead. A cool, delicioushand covered his eyes caressingly; a voice from spheres so far away thatworlds were the echoing points of the sound, came whispering to him likea stir of wings in a singing grove. With a last effort to remain in thewaking world, he raised his head so very little, but fell gently backagain with one sighing word on his lips:

"Fleda!"

It was no illusion. Fleda had come from her own night of trouble to hismotherless, wifeless home, and would not be denied admittance by thenurse. It was Jim Beadle who admitted her. 

"He'd be mad if he knew we wouldn't let her come, " Jim had said to thenurse. 

It was Fleda who had warned Ingolby of the dangers that surrounded him--the physical as well as business dangers. She came now to serve theblind victim of that Fate which she had seen hovering over him. 

The renegade daughter of the Romanys, as Jethro Fawe had called her, was, for the first time, in the house of her master Gorgio. 

CHAPTER XIII

THE CHAIN OF THE PAST

For once in its career, Lebanon was absolutely united. The blow that hadbrought down the Master Man had also struck the town between the eyes, and there was no one--friend or foe of Ingolby--who did not regard it asan insult and a challenge. It was now known that the roughs of Manitou, led by the big river-driver, were about to start on a raid upon Lebanonand upon Ingolby at the very moment the horseshoe did its work. Allnight there were groups of men waiting outside Ingolby's house. Theywere of all classes-carters, railway workers, bartenders, lawyers, engineers, bankers, accountants, merchants, ranchmen, carpenters, insurance agents, manufacturers, millers, horse-dealers, and so on. 

Some prayed for Ingolby's life, others swore viciously; and those whoswore had no contempt for those who prayed, while those who prayed weretolerant of those who swore. It was a union of incongruous elements. Men who had nothing in common were one in the spirit of faction; and allwere determined that the Orangeman, whose funeral was fixed for thismemorable Saturday, should be carried safely to his grave. Civic pridehad almost become civic fanaticism in Lebanon. One of the men beaten byIngolby in the recent struggle for control of the railways said to theothers shivering in the grey dawn: "They were bound to get him in theback. They're dagos, the lot of 'em. Skunks are skunks, even when youskin 'em. "

When, just before dawn, old Gabriel Druse issued from the house intowhich he had carried Ingolby the night before, they questioned himeagerly. He had been a figure apart from both Lebanon and Manitou, andthey did not regard him as a dago, particularly as it was more thanwhispered that Ingolby "had a lien" on his daughter. In the grey light, with his long grizzled beard and iron-grey, shaggy hair, Druse lookedlike a mystic figure of the days when the gods moved among men likemortals. His great height, vast proportions, and silent ways gave him aplace apart, and added to the superstitious feeling by which he wassurrounded. 

"How is he?" they asked whisperingly, as they crowded round him. 

"The danger is over, " was the slow, heavy reply. He will live, but hehas bad days to face. "

"What was the danger?" they asked. "Fever--maybe brain fever, " hereplied. "We'll see him through, " someone said. 

"Well, he cannot see himself through, " rejoined the old man solemnly. The enigmatical words made them feel there was something behind. 

"Why can't he see himself through?" asked Osterhaut the universal, whohad just arrived from the City Hall. 

"He can't see himself through because he is blind, " was the heavy answer. 

There was a moment of shock, of hushed surprise, and then a voice burstforth: "Blind--they've blinded him, boys! The dagos have killed hissight. He's blind, boys!"

A profane and angry muttering ran through the crowd, who were thirsty, hungry, and weary with watching. 

Osterhaut held up the horseshoe which had brought Ingolby down. "Here itis, the thing that done it. It's tied with a blue ribbon-for luck, " headded ironically. "It's got his blood on it. I'm keeping it tillManitou's paid the price of it. Then I'll give it to Lebanon for keeps. "

"That's the thing that did it, but where's the man behind the thing?"snarled a voice. 

Again there was a moment's silence, and then Billy Kyle, the veteranstage-driver, said: "He's in the jug, but a gaol has doors, and doors'llopen with or without keys. I'm for opening the door, boys. "

"What for?" asked a man who knew the answer, but who wanted the thingsaid. 

"I spent four years in Arizona, same as Jowett, " Billy Kyle answered, "and I got in the way of thinking as they do there, and acting just asquick as you think. I drove stage down in the Verde Valley. Sometimesthere wasn't time to bring a prisoner all the way to a judge and jury, and people was busy, and hadn't time to wait for the wagon; so they donewhat was right, and there was always a tree that would carry that kind o'fruit for the sake of humanity. It's the best way, boys. "

"This isn't Arizona or any other lyncher's country, " said Halliday, thelawyer, making his way to the front. "It isn't the law, and in thiscountry it's the law that counts. It's the Gover'ment's right to attendto that drunken dago that threw the horseshoe, and we've got to let theGover'ment do it. No lynching on my plate, thank you. If Ingolby couldspeak to us, you can bet your boots it's what he'd say. "

"What's your opinion, boss?" asked Billy Kyle of Gabriel Druse, who hadstood listening, his chin on his breast, his sombre eyes fixed on themabstractedly. 

At Kyle's question his eyes lighted up with a fire that was struck from aflint in other spheres, and he answered: "It is for the ruler to takelife, not the subject. If it is a man that rules, it is for him; if itis the law that rules, it is for the law. Here, it is the law. Then itis not for the subject, and it is not for you. "

"If he was your son?" asked Billy Kyle. 

"If he was my son, I should be the ruler, not the law, " was the grim, enigmatic reply, and the old man stalked away from them towards thebridge. 

"I'd bet he'd settle the dago's hash that done to his son what theManitou dagos done to Ingolby--and settle it quick, " remarked LickFarrelly, the tinsmith. 

"I bet he's been a ruler or something somewhere, " remarked Billy Kyle. 

"I bet I'm going home to breakfast, " interposed Halliday, the lawyer. "There's a straight day's work before us, gentlemen, " he added, "and wecan't do anything here. Orangemen, let's hoof it. "

Twenty Orangemen stepped out from the crowd. Halliday was a past masterof their lodge, and they all meant what he meant. They marched away inprocession--to breakfast and to a meeting of the lodge. Others straggledafter, but a few waited for the appearance of the doctor. When the suncame up and Rockwell, pale and downcast, issued forth, they gatheredround him, and walked with him through the town, questioning, listeningand threatening. 

A few still remained behind at Ingolby's house. They were of the devotedslaves of Ingolby who would follow him to the gates of Hades and backagain, or not back if need be. 

The nigger barber, Berry, was one; another was the Jack-of-all-trades, Osterhaut, a kind of municipal odd-man, with the well-known red hair, theface that constantly needed shaving, the blue serge shirt with a scarffor a collar, the suit of canvas in the summer and of Irish frieze in thewinter; the pair of hands which were always in his own pocket, never inany one else's; the grey eye, doglike in its mildness, and the long nosewhich gave him the name of Snorty. Of the same devoted class also wasJowett who, on a higher plane, was as wise and discerning a scout as anyleader ever had. 

While old Berry and Osterhaut and all the others were waiting atIngolby's house, Jowett was scouting among the Manitou roughs for theChief Constable of Lebanon, to find out what was forward. What he hadfound was not reassuring, because Manitou, conscious of being in thewrong, realized that Lebanon would try to make her understand her wrong-doing; and that was intolerable. It was clear to Jowett that, in spiteof all, there would be trouble at the Orange funeral, and that thethreatened strike would take place at the same time in spite of Ingolby'scatastrophe. Already in the early morning revengeful spirits fromLebanon had invaded the outer portions of Manitou and had takensatisfaction out of an equal number of "Dogans, " as they called the RomanCatholic labourers, one of whom was carried to the hospital with an elbowout of joint and a badly injured back. 

With as much information as he needed, Jowett made his way back toLebanon, when, at the approach to the bridge, he met Fleda hurrying withbent head and pale, distressed face in his own direction. Of all Westernmen none had a better appreciation of the sex that takes its toll ofevery traveller after his kind than Aaron Jowett. He had been a realbuck in his day among those of his own class, and though the storm of hisromances had become but a faint stirring of leaves which had tinges ofdays that are sear, he still had an eye unmatched for female beauty. Thesun which makes that northern land a paradise in summer caught the gold-brown hair of Gabriel Druse's daughter, and made it glint and shine. Itcoquetted with the umber of her eyes and they grew luminous as a jewel;it struck lightly across the pale russet of her cheek and made it like anapple that one's lips touch lovingly, when one calls it "too good toeat. " It made an atmosphere of half-silver and half-gold with a touch ofsunrise crimson for her to walk in, translating her form into meltinglines of grace. 

Jowett knew that Druse's daughter was on her way to the man who hadlooked once, looked twice, looked thrice into her eyes and had seen therehis own image; and that she had done the same; and that the man, it mightbe, would never look into their dark depths again. He might speak once, he might speak twice, he might speak thrice, but would it ever be thesame as the look that needed no words?

When he crossed Fleda Druse's pathway she stopped short. She knew thatJowett was Ingolby's true friend. She had seen him often, and he wasintimately associated with that day when she had run the Carillon Rapidsand had lain (for how long she never dared to think) in Ingolby's arms inthe sight of all the world. First among those who crowded round her atCarillon that day were Jowett and Osterhaut, who had tried to warn her. 

"You are going to him?" she said now with confidence in her eyes, and bythe intimacy of the phrase (as though she could speak of Ingolby only ashim) their own understanding was complete. 

"To see how he is and then to do other things, " Jowett answered. 

There was silence for a moment in which they moved slowly forward, andthen she said: "You were at Barbazon's last night?"

"When that Gipsy son of a dog gave him away!" he assented. "I neverheard anything like the speech Ingolby made. He had them in the throat. The Gipsy would have had nothing out of it, if it hadn't been for thehorseshoe. But in spite of the giveaway, Ingolby was getting them wherethey were soft-fairly drugging them with good news. You never heard suchdope. My, he was smooth! The golden, velvet truth it was, too. That'sthe only kind he has in stock; and they were sort of stupefied and locoedas they chewed his word-plant. Cicero must have been a saucy singer ofthe dictionary, and Paul the Apostle had a dope of his own you couldn'tbuy, but the gay gamut that Ingolby run gives them all the cold good-bye. "

She held herself very still as he spoke. There was, however, a strange, lonely look in her eyes. The man lying asleep in the darkness of bodyand mind yonder was not really her lover, for he had said no word directof love to her, and she knew him so little, how could she love him? Yetthere was something between them which had its authority over theirlives, overcoming even that maiden modesty which was in contrast to thebold, physical thing she had done in running the Carillon Rapids thosecenturies ago when she was young and glad-wistfully glad. So much hadcome since that day, she had travelled so far on the highway of Fate, that she looked back from peak to peak of happening to an almostinvisible horizon. So much had occurred and she felt so old thismorning; and yet there was in her heart the undefined feeling that shemust keep her radiant Spring of life for the blind Gorgio if he neededit-if he needed it. Would he need it, robbed of sight and with his life-work murdered?

She shuddered as she thought of what it meant to him. If a man is towork, he must have eyes to see. Yet what had she to do with it, afterall? She had no right to go to him even as she was going. Yet had shenot the right of common humanity? This Gorgio was her friend. Did notthe world know that he had saved her life?

As they came to the Lebanon end of the bridge, Fleda turned to Jowettand, commenting on his description of the scene at Barbazon, said:"He is a great man, but he trusts too much and risks too much. That wasno place for him. "

"Big men like him think they can do anything, " Jowett replied, a littleironically, subtly trying to force a confession of her preference forIngolby. 

He succeeded. Her eye lighted with indignation. She herself mightchallenge him, but she would not allow another to do so. 

"It is not the truth, " she rejoined sharply. "He does not measurehimself against the world so. He is like--like a child, " she added. 

"It seems to me all big men are like that, " Jowett rejoined; "and he'sthe biggest man the West has seen. He knows about every man's businessas though it was his own. I can get a margin off most any man in theWest on a horse-trade, but I'd look shy about doing a trade with him. You can't dope a horse so he won't know. He's on to it, sees it-sees itlike as if it was in glass. Sees anything and everything, and--" Hestopped short. The Master Gorgio could no longer see, and his henchmanflushed like a girl at his "break"; though, as a horse-dealer, he had inhis time listened without shame to wilder, angrier reproaches than mostmen living. 

She glanced at him, saw his confusion, forgave and understood him. 

"It was not the horseshoe, it was not the Gipsy, " she returned. "Theydid not set it going. It would not have happened but for one man. "

"Yes, it's Marchand, right enough, " answered Jowett, "but we'll get himyet. We'll get him with the branding-iron hot. "

"That will not put things right if--" she paused, then with a greateffort she added: "Does the doctor think he will get it back and that--"

She stopped suddenly in an agitation he did not care to see and he turnedaway his head. 

"Doctor doesn't know, " he answered. "There's got to be an expert. It'lltake time before he gets here, but--" he could not help but say it, seeing how great her distress was--"but it's going to come back. I'veseen cases--I saw one down on the Border"--how easily he lied!--"justlike his. It was blasting that done it--the shock. But the sight comeback all right, and quick too--like as I've seen a paralizite get up allat once and walk as though he'd never been locoed. Why, God Almightydon't let men like Ingolby be done like that by reptiles same'sMarchand. "

"You believe in God Almighty?" she said half-wonderingly, yet withgratitude in her tone. "You understand about God?"

"I've seen too many things not to try and deal fair with Him and not tryto cheat Him, " he answered. "I see things lots of times that wasn't everborn on the prairie or in any house. I've seen--I've seen enough, " hesaid abruptly, and stopped. 

"What have you seen?" she asked eagerly. "Was it good or bad?"

"Both, " he answered quickly. "I was stalked once--stalked I was by nightand often in the open day, by some sickly, loathsome thing, that evenmade me fight it with my hands--a thing I couldn't see. I used to firebuckshot at it, enough to kill an army, till I near went mad. I wasreally and truly getting loony. Then I took to prayin' to the best womanI ever knowed. I never had a mother, but she looked after me--my sister, Sara, it was. She brought me up, and then died and left me withoutanything to hang on to. I didn't know all I'd lost till she was gone. But I guess she knew what I thought of her; for she come back--after I'dprayed till I couldn't see. She come back into my room one night whenthe cursed 'haunt' was prowling round me, and as plain as I see you, Isaw her. 'Be at peace, ' she said, and I spoke to her, and said, 'Sara-why, Sara' and she smiled, and went away into nothing--like a bit o'cloud in the sun. "

He stopped, and was looking straight before him as though he saw avision. 

"It went?" she asked breathlessly. 

"It went like that--" He made a swift, outward gesture. "It went and itnever came back; and she didn't either--not ever. My idee is, " he added, "that there's evil things that mebbe are the ghost-shapes of living menthat want to do us harm; though, mebbe, too, they're the ghost-shapes ofmen that's dead, but that can't get on Over There. So they try to getback to us here; and they can make life Hell while they're stalking us. "

"I am sure you are right, " she said. 

She was thinking of the loathsome thing which haunted her room lastnight. Was it the embodied second self of Jethro Fawe, doing the evilthat Jethro Fawe, the visible corporeal man, wished to do? Sheshuddered, then bent her head and fixed her mind on Ingolby, whose housewas not far away. She felt strangely, miserably alone this morning. Shewas in that fluttering state which follows a girl's discovery that she isa woman, and the feeling dawns that she must complete herself by joiningher own life with the life of another. 

She showed no agitation, but her repression gave an almost statuesquecharacter to her face and figure. The adventurous nature of her earlylife had given her a power to meet shock and danger with coolness, andthough the news of Ingolby's tragedy had seemed to freeze the vitalforces in her, and all the world became blank for a moment, she hadcontrolled herself and had set forth to go to him, come what might. 

As she entered the street where Ingolby lived, she suddenly realized thedifficulty before her. She might go to him, but by only one right couldshe stay and nurse him, and that right she did not possess. He would, she knew, understand her, no matter how the world babbled. Why shouldthe world babble? What woman could have designs upon a blind man? Wasnot humanity alone sufficient warrant for staying by his side? Yet wouldhe wish it? Suddenly her heart sank; but again she remembered their lastparting, and once more she was sure he would be glad to have her withhim. 

It flashed upon her how different it would have been, if he and she hadbeen Romanys, and this thing had happened over there in the far lands sheknew so well. Who would have hinted at shame, if she had taken him toher father's tan or gone to his tan and tended him as a man might tend aman? Humanity would have been the only convention; there would have beenno sex, no false modesty, no babble, no reproach. If it had been a manas old as the oldest or as young as Jethro Fawe it would have made nodifference. 

As young as Jethro Fawe! Why was it that now she could never think ofthe lost and abandoned Romany life without thinking also of Jethro Fawe?Why should she hate him, despise him, revolt against him, and yet feelthat, as it were by invisible cords, he drew her back to that which shehad forsworn, to the Past which dragged at her feet? The Romany was notdead in her; her real struggle was yet to come; and in a vague butprophetic way she realized it. She was not yet one with the settledwestern world. 

As they came close to Ingolby's house she heard marching footsteps, andin the near distance she saw fourscore or more men tramping in militaryorder. "Who are they?" she asked of Jowett. 

"Men that are going to see law and order kept in Lebanon, " he answered. 

CHAPTER XIV

SUCH THINGS MAY NOT BE

A few hours later Fleda slowly made her way homeward through the woods onthe Manitou side of the Sagalac. Leaving Ingolby's house, she had seenmen from the ranches and farms and mines beyond Lebanon driving or ridinginto the town, as though to a fair or fete-day. Word of anticipatedtroubles had sped through the countryside, and the innate curiosity ofa race who greatly love a row brought in sensation-lovers. Some wereskimming along in one-horse gigs, a small bag of oats dangling beneathlike the pendulum of a great clock. Others were in double or triple-seated light wagons--"democrats" they were called. Women had a bit ofcolour in their hats or at their throats, and the men had on clean whitecollars and suits of "store-clothes"--a sign of being on pleasure bent. Young men and girls on rough but serviceable mounts cantered past, laughing and joking, and their loud talking grated on the ear of the girlwho had seen a Napoleon in the streets of his Moscow. 

Presently there crossed her path a gruesomely ugly hearse, with glasssides and cheap imitation ostrich plumes drawn by gorged ravens of horseswith egregiously long tails, and driven by an undertaker's assistant, who, with a natural gaiety of soul, displayed an idiotic solemnity bydragging down the corners of the mouth. She turned away in loathing. 

Her mind fled to a scene far away in the land of the Volga when she was achild, where she had seen buried two men, who had fought for theirinsulted honour till both had died of their wounds. She remembered thewhite and red sashes and the gay scarfs worn by the women at the burial, the jackets with great silver buttons worn by the men, and the silver-mounted pistols and bright steel knives in the garish belts. She sawagain the bodies of the two gladiators, covered with crimson robes, carried shoulder-high on a soft bed of interlaced branches to the gravesbeneath the trees. There, covered with flowers and sprigs andevergreens, ribbons and favours, the kindly earth hid them, cloaked fortheir long sleep, while women wept, and men praised the dead, and wentback to the open road again cheerily, as the dead would have them do. 

If he had died--the man she had just left behind in that torpid sleepwhich opiates bring--his body would have been carried to his last home injust such a hideous equipage as this hearse. A shiver of revolt wentthrough her frame, and her mind went to him as she had seen him lyingbetween the white sheets of his bed, his hands, as they had lain upon thecoverlet, compact of power and grace, knit and muscular and vital--notthe hand for a violin but the hand for a sword. 

As she had laid her hand upon his hot forehead and over his eyes, he hadunconsciously spoken her name. That had told her more of what really wasbetween them than she had ever known. In the presence of the catastrophethat must endanger, if not destroy the work he had done, the career hehad made, he thought of her, spoke her name. 

What could she do to prevent his ruin? She must do something, else shehad no right to think of him. As though her thoughts had summoned him, she came suddenly upon Felix Marchand at a point where her path resolveditself into two, one leading to Manitou, the other to her own home. 

There was a malicious glint in the greenish eyes of the dissolutedemagogue as he saw her. His hat made a half-circle before it found hishead again. 

"You pay early visits, mademoiselle, " he said, his teeth showing rat-like. 

"And you late ones?" she asked meaningly. 

"Not so late that I can't get up early to see what's going on, " herejoined in a sour voice. 

"Is it that those who beat you have to get up early?" she askedironically. 

"No one has got up earlier than me lately, " he sneered. 

"All the days are not begun, " she remarked calmly. 

"You have picked up quite an education since you left the road and thetan, " he said with the look of one who delivers a smashing blow. 

"I am not yet educated enough to know how you get other people to commityour crimes for you, " she retorted. 

"Who commits my crimes for me?" His voice was sharp and even anxious. 

"The man who told you I was once a Gipsy--Jethro Fawe. "

Her instinct had told her this was so. But had Jethro told all? Shethought not. It would need some catastrophe which threw him off hisbalance to make him speak to a Gorgio of the inner things of Romany life;and child--marriage was one of them. 

He scoffed. "Once a Gipsy always a Gipsy. Race is race, and you can'tput it off and on like--your stocking. "

He was going to say chemise, but race was race, and vestiges of nativeFrench chivalry stayed the gross simile on the lips of the degenerate. Fleda's eyes, however, took on a dark and brooding look which, morethan anything else, showed the Romany in her. With a murky flood ofresentment rising in her veins, she strove to fight back the half-savageinstincts of a bygone life. She felt as though she could willinglysentence this man to death as her father had done Jethro Fawe that verymorning. Another thought, however, was working and fighting in her--thatMarchand was better as a friend than an enemy; and that while Ingolby'sfate was in the balance, while yet the Orange funeral had not taken placeand the strikes had not yet come, it might be that he could be won overto Ingolby. Her mind was thus involuntarily reproducing Ingolby'spolicy, as he had declared it to Jowett and Rockwell. It was to findFelix Marchand's price, and to buy off his enmity--not by money, forMarchand did not need that, but by those other coins of value which areindividual to each man's desires, passions and needs. 

"Once a Frenchman isn't always a Frenchman, " she replied coolly, disregarding the coarse insolence of his last utterance. "You yourselfdo not now swear faith to the tricolour or the fleur-de-lis. "

He flushed. She had touched a tender nerve. 

"I am a Frenchman always, " he rejoined angrily. "I hate the English. I spit on the English flag. "

"Yes, I've heard you are an anarchist, " she rejoined. "A man with nocountry and with a flag that belongs to no country--quelle affaire etquelle drolerie!"

She laughed. Taken aback in spite of his anger, he stared at her. Howgood her French accent was! If she would only speak altogether in thatbeloved language, he could smother much malice. She was beautiful and--well, who could tell? Ingolby was wounded and blind, maybe for ever, andwomen are always with the top dog--that was his theory. Perhaps herapparent dislike of him was only a mood. Many women that he hadconquered had been just like that. They had begun by disliking him--fromLil Sarnia down--and had ended by being his. This girl would never behis in the way that the others had been, but--who could tell?--perhaps hewould think enough of her to marry her? Anyway, it was worth whilemaking such a beauty care for him. The other kind of women were easyenough to get, and it would be a piquant thing to have one irreproachableaffaire. He had never had one; he was not sure that any girl or woman hehad ever known had ever loved him, and he was certain that he had neverloved any girl or woman. To be in love would be a new and piquantexperience for him. He did not know love, but he knew what passion was. He had ever been the hunter. This trail might be dangerous, too, but hewould take his chances. He had seen her dislike of him whenever they hadmet in the past, and he had never tried to soften her attitude towardshim. He had certainly whistled, but she had not come. Well, he wouldwhistle again--a different tune. 

"You speak French much?" he asked almost eagerly, the insolence gone fromhis tone. "Why didn't I know that?"

"I speak French in Manitou, " she replied, "but nearly all the Frenchspeak English there, and so I speak more English than French. "

"Yes, that's it, " he rejoined almost angrily again. "The English willnot learn French, will not speak French. They make us learn English, and--"

"If you don't like the flag and the country, why don't you leave it?" sheinterrupted, hardening, though she had meant to try and win him over toIngolby's side. 

His eyes blazed. There was something almost real in the man after all. 

"The English can kill us, they can grind us to the dust, " he rejoined inFrench, "but we will not leave the land which has always been ours. Wesettled it; our fathers gave their lives for it in a thousand places. The Indians killed them, the rivers and the storms, the plague and thefire, the sickness and the cold wiped them out. They were burned aliveat the stake, they were flayed; their bones were broken to pieces bystones--but they blazed trails with their blood in the wilderness fromNew Orleans to Hudson's Bay. They paid for the land with their lives. Then the English came and took it, and since that time--one hundred andfifty years--we have been slaves. "

"You do not look like a slave, " she answered, "and you have not actedlike a slave. If you were to do the things in France that you've donehere, you wouldn't be free as you are to-day. "

"What have I done?" he asked darkly. 

"You were the cause of what happened at Barbazon's last night, "--hesmiled evilly--"you are egging on the roughs to break up the Orangefuneral to-day; and there is all the rest you know so well. "

"What is the rest I know so well?" He looked closely at her, his long, mongrel eyes half-closing with covert scrutiny. 

"Whatever it is, it is all bad and it is all yours. "

"Not all, " he retorted coolly. "You forget your Gipsy friend. He didhis part last night, and he's still free. "

They had entered the last little stretch of wood in which her home lay, and she slackened her footsteps slightly. She felt that she had beenunwise in challenging him; that she ought to try persistently to win himover. It was repugnant to her, still it must be done even yet. Shemastered herself for Ingolby's sake and changed her tactics. 

"As you glory in what you have done, you won't mind being responsiblefor all that's happened, " she replied in a more friendly tone. 

She made an impulsive gesture towards him. 

"You have shown what power you have--isn't that enough?" she asked. "You have made the crowd shout, 'Vive Marchand !' You can make everythingas peaceful as it is now upset. If you don't do so, there will be muchmisery. If peace must be got by force, then the force of government willget it in the end. You have the gift of getting hold of the worst menhere, and you have done it; but won't you now master them again in theother way? You have money and brains; why not use them to become aleader of those who will win at last, no matter what the game may be?"

He came close to her. She shrank inwardly, but she did not move. Hisgreenish eyes were wide open in the fulness of eloquence and desire. 

"You have a tongue like none I ever heard, " he said impulsively. "You'vegot a mind that thinks, you've got dash and can take risks. You tookrisks that day on the Carillon Rapids. It was only the day before thatI'd met you by the old ford of the Sagalac, and made up to you. Youchoked me off as though I was a wolf or a devil on the loose. The nextday when I saw Ingolby hand you out to the crowd from his arms, I gotnasty--I have fits like that sometimes, when I've had a little too muchliquor. I felt it more because you're the only kind of woman that couldever get a real hold on me. It was you made me get the boys rampagingand set the toughs moving. As you say, I can get hold of a crowd. It'snot hard--with money and drink. You can buy human nature cheap. Everyman has his price they say--and every woman too--bien sur! The thing isto find out what is the price, and then how to buy. You can't buyeveryone in the same way, even if you use a different price. You've gotto find out how they want the price--whether it's to be handed over thecounter, so to speak, or to be kept on the window-sill, or left in apocket, or dropped in a path, or dug up like a potato, with a funny make-believe that fools nobody, but just plays to the hypocrite in everyoneeverywhere. I'm saying this to you because you've seen more of theworld, I bet, than one in a million, even though you're so young. Idon't see why we can't come together. I'm to be bought. I don't saythat my price isn't high. You've got your price, too. You wouldn't fussyourself about things here in Manitou and Lebanon, if there wasn'tsomething you wanted to get. Tout ca! Well, isn't it worth while makingthe bargain? You've got such gift of speech that I'm just as if I'd beendrugged, and all round, face, figure, eyes, hair, foot, and girdle, you're worth giving up a lot for. I've seen plenty of your sex, and I'veheard crowds of them talk, but they never had anything for me beyond theminute. You've got the real thing. You're my fancy. You've beenthinking and dreaming of Ingolby. He's done. He's a back number. There's nothing he's done that isn't on the tumble since last night. The financial gang that he downed are out already against him. They'llhave his economic blood. He made a splash while he was at it, but thealligator's got him. It's 'Exit Ingolby, ' now. "

She made a passionate gesture, and seemed about to speak, but he went on:"No, don't say anything. I know how you feel. You've had your faceturned his way, and you can't look elsewhere all at once. But Time curesquick, if you're a good healthy human being. Ingolby was the kind likelyto draw a girl. He's a six-footer and over; he spangled a lot, and hesmiled pretty--comme le printemps, and was sharp enough to keep clear ofwomen that could hurt him. That was his strongest point after all, for alittle, sly sprat of a woman that's made eyes at you and led you on, tillyou sent her a note in a hurry some time with some loose hot words in it, and she got what she'd wanted, will make you pay a hundred times for thegoods you get. Ingolby was sharp enough to walk shy, until you came hisway, and then he lost his underpinning. But last night got him in thevitals--hit him between the eyes; and his stock's not worth ten cents inthe dollar to-day. But though the pumas are out, and he's done, and'llnever see his way out of the hole he's in"--he laughed at his grislyjoke"--it's natural to let him down easy. You've looked his way; he didyou a good turn at the Carillon Rapids, and you'd do one for him if youcould. I'm the only one can stop the worst from happening. You want topay your debt to him. Good. I can help you do it. I can stop thestrikes on the railways and in the mills. I can stop the row at theOrange funeral. I can stop the run on his bank and the drop in hisstock. I can fight the gang that's against him--I know how. I'm theman that can bring things to pass. "

He paused with a sly, mean smile of self-approval and conceit, and histongue licked the corners of his mouth in a way that drunkards have inthe early morning when the effect of last night's drinking has worn off. He spread out his hands with the air of a man who had unpacked his soul, but the chief characteristic of his manner was egregious belief inhimself. 

At first, in her desire to find a way to meet the needs of Ingolby, Fledahad listened to him with fortitude and even without revolt. But as hebegan to speak of women, and to refer to herself with a look of gloatingwhich men of his breed cannot hide, her angry pulses beat hard. She didnot quite know where he was leading, but she was sure he meant to saysomething which would vex her beyond bearing. At one moment she meant tocut short his narrative, but he prevented her, and when at last he ended, she was almost choking with agitation. It had been borne in upon her ashis monologue proceeded, that she would rather die than accept anythingfrom this man--anything of any kind. To fight him was the only thing. Nothing else could prevail in the end. His was the service of theunpenitent thief. 

"And what is it you want to buy from me?" she asked evenly. 

He did not notice, and he could not realize that ominous thing in hervoice and face. "I want to be friends with you. I want to see you herein the woods, to meet you as you met Ingolby. I want to talk with you, to hear you talk; to learn things from you I never learned before; to--"

She interrupted him with a swift gesture. "And then--after that? Whatdo you want at the end of it all? One cannot spend one's time talkingand wandering in the woods and teaching and learning. After that, what?"

"I have a house in Montreal, " he said evasively. "I don't want to livethere alone. " He laughed. "It's big enough for two, and at the end itmight be us two, if--"

With sharp anger, yet with coolness and dignity, she broke in on hiswords. "Might be us two!" she exclaimed. "I have never thought ofmaking my home in a sewer. Do you think--but, no, it isn't any usetalking! You don't know how to deal with man or woman. You areperverted. "

"I did not mean what you mean; I meant that I should want to marry you, "he protested. "You think the worst of me. Someone has poisoned yourmind against me. "

"Everyone has poisoned my mind against you, " she returned, "and yourselfmost of all. I know you will try to injure Mr. Ingolby; and I know thatyou will try to injure me; but you will not succeed. "

She turned and moved away from him quickly, taking the path towards herown front door. He called something after her, but she did not or wouldnot hear. 

As she entered the open space in front of the house, she heard footstepsbehind her and turned quickly, not without apprehension. A woman camehurrying towards her. She was pale, agitated, haggard with fatigue. 

"May I speak with you?" she asked in French. "Surely, " replied Fleda. 

CHAPTER XV

THE WOMAN FROM WIND RIVER

"What is it?" asked Fleda, opening the door of the house. 

"I want to speak to you about m'sieu', " replied the sad-faced woman. She made a motion of her head backwards towards the wood. "About M'sieu'Marchand. "

Fleda's face hardened; she had had more than enough of "M'sieu'Marchand. " She was bitterly ashamed that she had, even for a moment, thought of using diplomacy with him. But this woman's face was soforlorn, apart, and lonely, that the old spirit of the Open Road workedits will. In far-off days she had never seen a human being turned awayfrom a Romany tent, or driven from a Romany camp. She opened the doorand stood aside to admit the wayfarer. 

A few moments later, the woman, tidied and freshened, sat at the amplebreakfast which was characteristic of Romany home-life. The woman'splate was bountifully supplied by Fleda, and her cup filled more thanonce by Madame Bulteel, while old Gabriel Druse bulked friendly over all. His face now showed none of the passion and sternness which had beenpresent when he passed the Sentence of the Patrin upon Jethro Fawe;nothing of the gloom filling his eyes as he left Ingolby's house. Thegracious, bountiful look of the patriarch, of the head of the clan, wasupon him. 

The husband of one wife, the father of one child, yet the Ry of Rys hadstill the overlooking, protective sense of one who had the care of greatnumbers of people. His keen eyes foresaw more of the story the woman wasto tell presently than either of the women of his household. He had seenmany such women as this, and had inflexibly judged between them and thosewho had wronged them. 

"Where have you come from?" he asked, as the meal drew to a close. 

"From Wind River and under Elk Mountain, " the woman answered with a lookof relief. Her face was of those who no longer can bear the soul'ssecrets. 

There was silence while the breakfast things were cleared away, and thewindow was thrown wide to the full morning sun. It broke through thebranches of pine and cedar and juniper; it made translucent the leaves ofthe maples; it shimmered on Fleda's brown hair as she pulled a rose fromthe bush at the window, and gave it to the forlorn creature in the grey"linsey-woolsey" dress and the loose blue flannel jacket, whose skin wascoarsened by outdoor life, but who had something of real beauty in theintense blue of her eyes. She had been a very comely figure in her bestdays, for her waist was small, her bosom gently and firmly rounded, andher hands were finer than those of most who live and work much in theopen air. 

"You said there was something you wished to tell me, " said Fleda, atlast. 

The woman gazed slowly round at the three, as though with puzzled appeal. There was the look of the Outlander in her face; of one who had beenexiled from familiar things and places. In manner she was like a child. Her glance wandered over the faces of the two women, then her eyes metthose of the Ry, and stayed there. 

"I am old and I have seen many sorrows, " said Gabriel Druse, diviningwhat was in her mind. "I will try to understand. "

"I have known all the bitterness of life, " interposed the low, soft voiceof Madame Bulteel. 

"All ears are the same here, " Fleda added, looking the woman in the eyes. 

"I will tell everything, " was the instant reply. Her fingers twined anduntwined in her lap with a nervousness shown by neither face nor body. Her face was almost apathetic in its despair, but her body had an uprightcourage. 

She sighed heavily and began. 

"My name is Arabella Stone. I was married from my home over against WindRiver by the Jumping Sandhills. 

"My father was a lumberman. He was always captain of the gang in thewoods, and captain of the river in the summer. My mother was deaf anddumb. It was very lonely at times when my father was away. I loved aboy--a good boy, and he was killed breaking horses. When I was twenty-one years old my mother died. It was not good for me to be alone, myfather said, so he must either give up the woods and the river, or he orI must marry. Well, I saw he would not marry, for my mother's face wasone a man could not forget. "

The old man stirred in his seat. "I have seen such, " he said in his deepvoice. 

"So it was I said to myself I would marry, " she continued, "though I hadloved the Boy that died under the hoofs of the black stallion. Thereweren't many girls at the Jumping Sandhills, and so there were men, nowone, now another, to say things to me which did not touch my heart; but Idid not laugh, because I understood that they were lonely. Yet I likedone of them more than all the others. 

"So, for my father's sake, I came nearer to Dennis, and at last it seemedI could bear to look at him any time of the day or night he came to me. He was built like a pine-tree, and had a playful tongue, and also he wasa ranchman like the Boy that was gone. It all came about on the day herode in from the range the wild wicked black stallion which all range-riders had tried for years to capture. It was like a brother of thehorse which had killed my Boy, only bigger. When Dennis mastered him androde him to my door I made up my mind, and when he whispered to me overthe dipper of buttermilk I gave him, I said, 'Yes. ' I was proud of him. He did things that a woman likes, and said the things a woman loves tohear, though they be the same thing said over and over again. "

Madame Bulteel nodded her head as though in a dream, and the Ry of Ryssat with his two great hands on the chair-arm and his chin dropped on hischest. Fleda's hands were clasped in her lap, and her big eyes neverleft the woman's face. 

"Before a month was gone I had married him, " the, low, tired voice wenton. "It was a gay wedding; and my father was very happy, for he thoughtI had got the desire of a woman's life--a home of her own. For a timeall went well. Dennis was gay and careless and wilful, but he was easyto live with, too, except when he came back from the town where he soldhis horses. Then he was different, because of the drink, and he wasquarrelsome with me--and cruel, too. 

"At last when he came home with the drink upon him, he would sleep on thefloor and not beside me. This wore upon my heart. I thought that if Icould only put my hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear, he wouldget better of his bad feeling; but he was sulky, and he would not bearwith me. Though I never loved him as I loved my Boy, still I tried to bea good wife to him, and never turned my eyes to any other man. "

Suddenly she stopped as though the pain of speaking was too great. Madame Bulteel murmured something, but the only word that reached theears of the others was the Arabic word 'mafish'. Her pale face wassuffused as she said it. 

Two or three times the woman essayed to speak again, but could not. Atlast, however, she overcame her emotion and said: "So it was when M'sieu'Felix Marchand came up from the Sagalac. "

The old man started and muttered harshly, but Fleda had foreseen theentrance of the dissolute Frenchman into the tale, and gave no sign ofsurprise. 

"M'sieu' Marchand bought horses, " the sad voice trailed on. "One day hebought the mining-claims Dennis had been holding till he could developthem or sell them for good money. When Dennis went to town again hebrought me back a present of a belt with silver clasps; but yet againthat night he slept upon the floor alone. So it went on. M. Marchand, he goes on to the mountains and comes back; and he buys more horses, andDennis takes them to Yargo, and M. Marchand goes with him, but comes backbefore Dennis does. It was then M'sieu' begun to talk to me; to saythings that soothe a woman when she is hurt. I knew now Dennis did notwant me as when he first married me. He was that kind of man--quick tocare and quicker to forget. He was weak, he could not fasten where hestood. It pleased him to be gay and friendly with me when he was sober, but there was nothing behind it--nothing, nothing at all. At last Ibegan to cry when I thought of it, for it went on and on, and I was toomuch alone. I looked at myself in the glass, and I saw I was not old orlean. I sang in the trees beside the brook, and my voice was even alittle better than in the days when Dennis first came to my father'shouse. I looked to my cooking, and I knew that it was as good as ever. I thought of my clothes, and how I did my hair, and asked myself if Iwas as fresh to see as when Dennis first came to me. I could see nodifference. There was a clear pool not far away under the little hillswhere the springs came together. I used to bathe in it every morning anddry myself in the sun; and my body was like a child's. That being so, should my own man turn his head away from me day or night? What had Idone to be used so, less than two years after I had married!"

She paused and hung her head, weeping gently. "Shame stings a woman likenothing else, " Madame Bulteel said with a sigh. 

"It was so with me, " continued Dennis's wife. "Then at last the thoughtcame that there was another woman. And all the time M. Marchand keptcoming and going, at first when Dennis was there, and always with somegood reason for coming--horses, cattle, shooting, or furs bought of theIndians. When Dennis was not there, he came at first for an hour or two, as if by chance, then for a whole day, because he said he knew I waslonely. One day, I was sitting by the pool--it was in the evening. I was crying because of the thought that followed me of another womansomewhere, who made Dennis turn from me. Then it was M'sieu' came andput a hand on my shoulder--he came so quietly that I did not hear himtill he touched me. He said he knew why I cried, and it saddened hissoul. "

"His soul--the jackal!" growled the old man in his beard. 

The woman nodded wearily and went on. "For all of ten days I had beenalone, except for the cattlemen camping a mile away and an old Indianhelper who slept in his tepee within call. Loneliness makes you weakwhen there's something tearing at the heart. So I let M'sieu' Marchandtalk to me. At last he told me that there was a woman at Yargo--thatDennis did not go there for business, but to her. Everyone knew itexcept me, he said. He told me to ask old Throw Hard, the Indian helper, if he had spoken the truth. I was shamed, and angry and crazy, too, Ithink, so I went to old Throw Hard and asked him. He said he could nottell the truth, and that he would not lie to me. So I knew it was alltrue. 

"How do I know what was in my mind? Is a woman not mad at such a time!There I was, tossed aside for a flyaway, who was for any man that wouldcome her way. Yes, I think I was mad. The pride in me was hurt--as onlya woman can understand. " She paused and looked at the two women wholistened to her. Fleda's eyes were on the world beyond the windowof the room. 

"Surely we understand, " whispered Madame Bulteel. 

The woman's courage returned, and she continued: "I could not go to myfather, for he was riding the river scores of miles away. I was terriblyalone. It was then that M'sieu' Marchand, who had bribed the woman todraw Dennis away, begged me to go away with him. He swore I should marryhim as soon as I could be free of Dennis. I scarcely knew what I said orthought; but the place I had loved was hateful to me, so I went away withhim. "

A sharp, pained exclamation broke from the lips of Madame Bulteel, butpresently she reached out and laid a hand upon the woman's arm. "Ofcourse you went with him, " she said. "You could not stay where you wereand face the return of Dennis. There was no child to keep you, and theman that tempted you said he adored you?"

The woman looked gratefully at her. "That was what he said, " sheanswered. "He said he was tired of wandering, and that he wanted a home-and there was a big house in Montreal. "

She stopped suddenly upon an angry, smothered word from Fleda's lips. Abig house in Montreal! Fleda's first impulse was to break in upon thewoman's story and tell her father what had happened just now outsidetheir own house; but she waited. 

"Yes, there was a big house in Montreal?" said Fleda, her eyes nowresting sadly upon the woman. 

"He said it should be mine. But that did not count. To be far away fromall that had been was more than all else. I was not thinking of the man, or caring for him, I was flying from my shame. I did not see then theshame to which I was going. I was a fool, and I was mad and bad also. When I waked--and it was soon--there was quick understanding between us. The big house in Montreal--that was never meant for me. He was alreadymarried. "

The old man stretched heavily to his feet, leaned both hands on thetable, and looked at the woman with glowering eyes, while Fleda's heartseemed to stop beating. 

"Married!" growled Gabriel Druse, with a blur of passion in his voice. He knew that Felix Marchand had followed his daughter as though he were asingle man. 

Fleda saw what was working in his mind. Since her father suspected, heshould know all. 

"He almost offered me the big house in Montreal this morning, " she saidevenly and coldly. 

A malediction broke from the old man's lips. 

"He almost thought he wanted me to marry him, " Fleda added scornfully. 

"And what did you say?" Druse asked. 

"There could only be one thing to say. I told him I had never thought ofmaking my home in a sewer. " A grim smile broke over the old man's face, and he sat down again. 

"Because I saw him with you I wanted to warn you, " the woman continued. "Yesterday, I came to warn him of his danger, and he laughed at me. FromMadame Thibadeau I heard he had said he would make you sing his song. When I came to tell you, there he was with you. But when he left you Iwas sure there was no need to speak. Still I felt I must tell you--perhaps because you are rich and strong, and will stop him from doingmore harm. "

"How do you know we are rich?" asked Druse in a rough tone. 

"It is what the world says, " was the reply. "Is there harm in that? Inany case it was right to tell you all; so that one who had herded with awoman like me should not be friends with you. "

"I have seen worse women than you, " murmured the old man. 

"What danger did you come to warn M. Marchand about?" asked Fleda. 

"To his life, " answered the woman. 

"Do you want to save his life?" asked the old man. 

"Ah, is it not always so?" intervened Madame Bulteel in a low, sadvoice. "To be wronged like that does not make a woman just. "

"I am just, " answered the woman. "He deserves to die, but I want to savethe man that will kill him when they meet. "

"Who will kill him?" asked Fleda. "Dennis--he will kill Marchand if hecan. "

The old man leaned forward with puzzled, gloomy interest. "Why? Dennisleft you for another. You say he had grown cold. Was that not what hewanted--that you should leave him?"

The woman looked at him with tearful eyes. "If I had known Dennisbetter, I should have waited. What he did is of the moment only. A manmay fall and rise again, but it is not so with a woman. She thinks andthinks upon the scar that shows where she wounded herself; and she neverforgets, and so her life becomes nothing--nothing. "

No one saw that Madame Bulteel held herself rigidly, and was so whitethat even the sunlight was gold beside her look. Yet the strangest, saddest smile played about her lips; and presently, as the eyes of theothers fastened on the woman and did not leave her, she regained herusual composure. 

The woman kept looking at Gabriel Druse. "When Dennis found that I hadgone, and knew why--for I left word on a sheet of paper--he went mad likeme. Trailing to the south, to find M'sieu' Marchand, he had an accident, and was laid up in a shack for weeks on the Tanguishene River, and theycould not move him. But at last a ranchman wrote to me, and the letterfound me on the very day I left M'sieu'. When I got that letter beggingme to go to the Tanguishene River, to nurse Dennis who loved me still, myheart sank. I said to myself I could not go; and Dennis and I must beapart always to the end of time. But then I thought again. He was ill, and his body was as broken as his mind. Well, since I could do his mindno good, I would try to help his body. I could do that much for him. SoI went. But the letter to me had been long on the way, and when I got tothe Tanguishene River he was almost well. "

She paused and rocked her body to and fro for a moment as though in pain. 

"He wanted me to go back to him then. He said he had never cared for thewoman at Yargo, and that what he felt for me now was different from whatit had ever been. When he had settled accounts we could go back to theranch and be at peace. I knew what he meant by settling accounts, and itfrightened me. That is why I am here. I came to warn the man, Marchand, for if Dennis kills him, then they will hang Dennis. Do you not see?This is a country of law. I saw that Dennis had the madness in hisbrain, and so I left him again in the evening of the day I found him, andcame here--it is a long way. Yesterday, M'sieu' Marchand laughed at mewhen I warned him. He said he could take care of himself. But such menas Dennis stop at nothing; there will be killing, if M'sieu' stays here. "

"You will go back to Dennis?" asked Fleda gently. "Some other womanwill make him happy when he forgets me, " was the cheerless, grey reply. 

The old man got up and, coming over, laid a hand upon her shoulder. 

"Where did you think of going from here?" he asked. 

"Anywhere--I don't know, " was the reply. 

"Is there no work here for her?" he asked, turning to Madame Bulteel. 

"Yes, plenty, " was the reply. "And room also?" he asked again. 

"Was ever a tent too full, when the lost traveller stumbled into camp inthe old days?" rejoined Fleda. The woman trembled to her feet, a gladlook in her eyes. "I ought to go, but I am tired and I will gladlystay, " she said and swayed against the table. 

Madame Bulteel and Fleda put their arms round her, steadying her. 

"This is not the way to act, " said Fleda with a touch of sharp reproof. Had she not her own trouble to face?

The stricken woman drew herself up and looked Fleda in the eyes. "I willfind the right way, if I can, " she said with courage. 

A half-hour later, as the old man sat alone in the room where he hadbreakfasted, a rifle-shot rang out in the distance. 

"The trouble begins, " he said, as he rose and hastened into the hallway. 

Another shot rang out. He caught up his wide felt hat, reached for agreat walking-stick in the corner, and left the house hurriedly. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAYOR FILLS AN OFFICE

It was a false alarm which had startled Gabriel Druse, but it hadsignificance. The Orange funeral was not to take place until eleveno'clock, and it was only eight o'clock when the Ry left his home. Arifle-shot had, however, been fired across the Sagalac from the Manitouside, and it had been promptly acknowledged from Lebanon. There was ashort pause, and then came another from the Lebanon side. It was merelya warning and a challenge. The only man who could have controlled theposition was blind and helpless. 

As Druse walked rapidly towards the bridge, he met Jowett. Jowett wasone of the few men in either town for whom the Ry had regard, and thefriendliness had had its origin in Jowett's knowledge of horseflesh. This was a field in which the Ry was himself a master. He had ever beentoo high-placed among his own people to trade and barter horses exceptwhen, sending a score of Romanys on a hunt for wild ponies on the hillsof Eastern Europe, he had afterwards sold the tamed herd to the highestbidders in some Balkan town; but he had an infallible eye for a horse. 

It was a curious anomaly also that the one man in Lebanon who would nothave been expected to love and pursue horse-flesh was the Reverend ReubenTripple to whom Ingolby had given his conge, but who loved a horse as heloved himself. 

He was indeed a greater expert in horses than in souls. One of thesights of Lebanon had been the appearance in the field of the "ReverendTripple, " who owned a great, raw-boned bay mare of lank proportions, thewinner of a certain great trotting-race which had delighted the mockers. 

For two years Jowett had eyed Mr. Tripple's rawbone with a piratical eye. 

Though it had won only a single great race, that, in Jowett's view, wasits master's fault. As the Arabs say, however, Allah is with thepatient; and so it was that on the evening of the day in which Ingolbymet disaster, Mr. Tripple informed Jowett that he was willing to sell hisrawbone. 

He was mounted on the gawky roadster when he met Gabriel Druse making forthe bridge. Their greeting was as cordial as hasty. Anxious as was theRy to learn what was going on in the towns, Jowett's mount caught hiseye. It was but a little time since they had met at Ingolby's house, andthey were both full of the grave events afoot, but here was a horse-dealof consequence, and the bridle-rein was looseflung. 

"Yes, I got it, " said Jowett, with a chuckle, interpreting the old man'slook. "I got it for good--a wonder from Wonderville. Damned queer-looking critter, but there, I guess we know what I've got. Outside likea crinoline, inside like a pair of ankles of the Lady Jane Plantagenet. Yes, I got it, Mr. Druse, got it dead-on!"

"How?" asked the Ry, feeling the clean fetlocks with affectionateapproval. 

"He's off East, so he says, " was the joyous reply; "sudden but sure, andI dunno why. Anyway, he's got the door-handle offered, and he's offwithout his camel. " He stroked the neck of the bay lovingly. "Howmuch?"

Jowett held up his fingers. The old man lifted his eyebrows quizzically. "That-h'm! Does he preach as well as that?" he asked. 

Jowett chuckled. "He knows the horse-country better than the NewJerusalem, I guess; and I wasn't off my feed, nor hadn't lost my headneither. I wanted that dust-hawk, and he knew it; but I got in on himwith the harness and the sulky. The bridle he got from a Mexican thatcome up here a year ago, and went broke and then went dead; and therebeing no padre, Tripple did the burying, and he took the bridle as hisfee, I s'pose. It had twenty dollars' worth of silver on it--look atthese conchs. "

He trifled with the big beautiful buttons on the head-stall. "Thesulky's as good as new, and so's the harness almost; and there's thenose-bag and the blankets, and a saddle and a monkey-wrench and twobottles of horse-liniment, and odds and ends. I only paid that"--and heheld up his fingers again as though it was a sacred rite--"for the lot. Not bad, I want to say. Isn't he good for all day, this one?"

The old man nodded, then turned towards the bridge. "The gun-shots--what?" he asked, setting forward at a walk which taxed the rawbone'sstride. 

"An invite--come to the wedding; that's all. Only it's a funeral thistime, and, if something good doesn't happen, there'll be more than onefuneral on the Sagalac to-morrow. I've had my try, but I dunno how it'llcome out. He's not a man of much dictionary is the Monseenoor. "

"The Monseigneur Lourde? What does he say?"

"He says what we all say, that he is sorry. 'But why have the Orangefuneral while things are as they are?' he says, and he asks for the redflag not to be shook in the face of the bull. "

"That is not the talk of a fool, as most priests are, " growled the other. 

"Sure. But it wants a real wind-warbler to make them see it in Lebanon. They've got the needle. They'll pray to-day with the taste of blood intheir mouths. It's gone too far. Only a miracle can keep things right. The Mayor has wired for the mounted police--our own battalion of militiawouldn't serve, and there'd be no use ordering them out--but the Riderscan't get here in time. The train's due the very time the funeral's tostart, but that train's always late, though they say the ingine-driver isan Orangeman! And the funeral will start at the time fixed, or I don'tknow the boys that belong to the lodge. So it's up to We, Us & Co. Tosee the thing through, or go bust. It don't suit me. It wouldn't havebeen like this, if it hadn't been for what happened to the Chief lastnight. There's no holding the boys in. One thing's sure, the Gipsy thatgive Ingolby away has got to lie low if he hasn't got away, or there'llbe one less of his tribe to eat the juicy hedgehog. Yes, sir-ee!"

To the last words of Jowett the Ry seemed to pay no attention, though hislips shut tight and a menacing look came into his eyes. They were nowupon the bridge, and could see what was forward on both sides of theSagalac. There was unusual bustle and activity in the streets and on theriver-bank of both towns. It was noticeable also that though the millswere running in Manitou, there were fewer chimneys smoking, and far moremen in the streets than usual. Tied up to the Manitou shore were a half-dozen cribs or rafts of timber which should be floating eastward down theSagalac. 

"If the Monseenoor can't, or don't, step in, we're bound for a shindyover a corpse, " continued Jowett after a moment. 

"Can the Monseigneur cast a spell over them all?" remarked the Ryironically, for he had little faith in priests, though he had for thisparticular one great respect. 

"He's a big man, that preelate, " answered Jowett quickly and forcibly. "He kept the Crees quiet when they was going to rise. If they'd got up, there'd have been hundreds of settlers massacreed. He risked his life todo that--went right into the camp in face of levelled rifles, and satdown and begun to talk. A minute afterwards all the chiefs wassquatting, too. Then the tussle begun between a man with a soul and aheathen gang that eat dog, kill their old folks, their cripples and theirdeformed children, and run sticks of wood through their bleeding chests, just to show that they're heathens. But he won out, this Jesueete friendo' man. That's why I'm putting my horses and my land and my pants and myshirt and the buff that's underneath on the little preelate. "

Gabriel Druse's face did not indicate the same confidence. "It is not anage of miracles; the priest is not enough, " he said sceptically. 

By twos, by threes, by tens, men from Manitou came sauntering across thebridge into Lebanon, until a goodly number were scattered at differentpoints through the town. They seemed to distribute themselves by apreconceived plan, and they were all habitants. There were no Russians, Finns, Swedes, Norwegians, or Germans among them. They were low-browed, sturdy men, dressed in red or blue serge shirts, some with sashes aroundtheir waists, some with ear-rings in their ears, some in knee-boots, andsome with the heavy spiked boots of the river-driver. None appeared tocarry any weapon that would shoot, yet in their belts was the sheath-knife, the invariable equipment of their class. It would have seemedmore suspicious if they had not carried them. The railwaymen, miners, carters, mill-hands, however, appeared to carry nothing save their strongarms and hairy hands, and some were as hairy as animals. Thesebackwoodsmen also could, without weapons, turn a town into a generalhospital. In battle they fought not only with hands but also with teethand hoofs like wild stallions. Teeth tore off an ear or sliced away anose, hands smote like hammers or gouged out eyes, and their nailed bootswere weapons of as savage a kind as could be invented. They could springand strike an opponent with one foot in the chest or in the face, andspoil the face for many a day, or for ever. It was a gift of thebackwoods and the lumber-camps, practised in hours of stark monotony whenthe devils which haunt places of isolation devoid of family life, wheremen herd together like dogs in a kennel, break loose. There the man thatdips his fingers "friendly-like" in the dish of his neighbour one minutewants the eye of that neighbour the next not so much in innate ormomentary hatred, as in innate savagery and the primeval sense of combat, the war which was in the blood of the first man. 

The unarmed appearance of these men did not deceive the pioneer folkof Lebanon. To them the time had come when the reactionary forces ofManitou must receive a check. Even those who thought the funeralfanatical and provocative were ready to defend it. 

The person who liked the whole business least was Rockwell. He wassubject to the same weariness of the flesh and fatigue of the spirit asall men; yet it was expected of him that at any hour he should be at thedisposal of suffering humanity--of criminal or idiotic humanity--patient, devoted, calm, nervestrung, complete. He was the one person in thecommunity who was the universal necessity, and yet for whom the communityhad no mercy in its troubles or out of them. There were three doctors inLebanon, but none was an institution, none had prestige save Rockwell, and he often wished that he had less prestige, since he cared nothing forpopularity. 

He had made his preparations for possible "accidents" in no happy mood. Fresh from the bedside of Ingolby, having had no sleep, and with manysick people on his list, he inwardly damned the foolishness of bothtowns. He even sharply rebuked the Mayor, who urged surgicalpreparations upon him, for not sending sooner to the Government for aforce which could preserve order or prevent the procession. 

It was while he was doing so that Jowett appeared with Gabriel Druse tointerview the Mayor. 

"It's like this, " said Jowett. "In another hour the funeral will start. There's a lot of Manitou huskies in Lebanon now, and their feet isloaded, if their guns ain't. They're comin' by driblets, and by-and-bye, when they've all distributed themselves, there'll be a marching column ofthem from Manitou. It's all arranged to make trouble and break the law. It's the first real organized set-to we've had between the towns, andit'll be nasty. If the preelate doesn't dope them, there'll be pertiklerhell to pay. "

He then gave the story of his visit to Monseigneur Lourde, and thedetails of what was going forward in Manitou so far as he had learned. Also the ubiquitous Osterhaut had not been idle, and his bulletin hadjust been handed to Jowett. 

"There's one thing ought to be done and has got to be done, " Jowettadded, "if the Monseenoor don't pull if off. The leaders have to bearrested, and it had better be done by one that, in a way, don't belongto either Lebanon or Manitou. "

The Mayor shook his head. "I don't see how I can authorize Marchand'sarrest--not till he breaks the law, in any case. "

"It's against the law to conspire to break the law, " replied Jowett. "You've been making a lot of special constables. Make Mr. Gabriel Drusehere a special constable, then if the law's broke, he can have a right totake a hand in. "

The giant Ry had stood apart, watchful and ruminant, but he now steppedforward, as the Mayor turned to him and stretched out a hand. 

"I am for peace, " the old man said. "To keep the peace the law must bestrong. "

In spite of the gravity of the situation the Mayor smiled. "You wouldn'tneed much disguise to stand for the law, Mr. Druse, " he remarked. "Whenthe law is seven feet high, it stands well up. "

The Ry did not smile. "Make me the head of the constables, and I willkeep the peace, " he said. There was a sudden silence. The proposal hadcome so quietly, and it was so startling, that even the calm Rockwell wastaken aback. But his eye and the eye of the Mayor met, and the look inboth their faces was the same. 

"That's bold play, " the Mayor said, "but I guess it goes. Yesterday itcouldn't be done. To-day it can. The Chief Constable's down withsmallpox. Got it from an Injun prisoner days ago. He's been bad forthree days, but hung on. Now he's down, and there's no Chief. I wasgoing to act myself, but the trouble was, if anything happened to me, there'd be no head of anything. It's better to have two strings to yourbow. It's a go-it's a straight go, Mr. Druse. Seven foot of ChiefConstable ought to have its weight with the roughnecks. "

A look of hopefulness came into his face. This sage, huge, commandingfigure would have a good moral effect on the rude elements of disorder. 

"I'll have you read the Riot Act instead of doing it myself, " added theMayor. "It'll be a good introduction for you, and as you live inManitou, it'll be a knock-out blow to the toughs. Sometimes one man isas good as a hundred. Come on to the Courthouse with me, " he continuedcheerfully. "We'll fix the whole thing. All the special constables arewaiting there with the regular police. An extra foot on a captain'sshoulders is as good as a battery of guns. "

"You're sure it's according to Hoyle?" asked Jowett quizzically. 

He was so delighted that he felt he must "make the Mayor show off self, "as he put it afterwards. He did not miscalculate; the Mayor rose to hischallenge. 

"I'm boss of this show, " he said, "and I can go it alone if necessarywhen the town's in danger and the law's being hustled. I've had ameeting of the Council and I've got the sailing-orders I want. I'm bossof the place, and Mr. Druse is my--" he stopped, because there was a lookin the eyes of the Ry which demanded consideration--"And Mr. Druse islawboss, " he added. 

The old ineradicable look of command shone in the eyes of Gabriel Druse. Leadership was written all over him. Power spoke in every motion. Thesquare, unbowed shoulders, the heavily lined face, with the patriarchalbeard, the gnarled hands, the rough-hewn limbs, the eye of bright, brooding force proclaimed authority. 

Indeed in that moment there came into the face of the old Nomad the lookit had not worn for many a day. The self-exiled ruler had paid a heavyprice for his daughter's vow, though he had never acknowledged it tohimself. His self-ordained impotency, in a camp that was never moved, within walls which never rose with the sunset and fell with the morning;where his feet trod the same roadway day after day; where no man askedfor justice or sought his counsel or fell back on his protection; wherehe drank from the same spring and tethered his horse in the same paddockfrom morn to morn: all these things had eaten at his heart and bowed hisspirit in spite of himself. 

He was not now of the Romany world, and he was not of the Gorgio world;but here at last was the old thing come back to him in a new way, and hisbones rejoiced. He would entitle his daughter to her place among theGorgios. Perhaps also it would be given him, in the name of the law, todeal with a man he hated. 

"We've got Mister Marchand now, " said Jowett softly to the old chieftain. 

The Ry's eyes lighted and his jaw set. He did not speak, but his handsclenched, opened and clenched again. Jowett saw and grinned. 

"The Mayor and the law-boss'll win out, I guess, " he said to himself. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE MONSEIGNEUR AND THE NOMAD

Even more than Dr. Rockwell, Berry, the barber, was the most troubled manin Lebanon on the day of the Orange funeral. Berry was a good example ofan unreasoning infatuation. The accident which had come to his idol, with the certain fall of his fortunes, hit him so hard, that, for thefirst time since he became a barber, his razor nipped the flesh of morethan one who sat in his red-upholstered chair. 

In his position, Berry was likely to hear whatever gossip was going. Whoshall have perfect self-control with a giant bib under the chin, tippedback on a chair that cannot be regulated, with a face covered by lather, and two plantation fingers holding the nose? In these circumstances, with much diplomacy, Berry corkscrewed his way into confidence, and whenhe dipped a white cloth in bay-rum and eau-de-cologne, and laid it overthe face of the victim, with the finality of a satisfied inquisitor, itwas like giving the last smother to human individuality. An artist afterhis kind, he no sooner got what he wanted than he carefully coaxed hisvictim away from thoughts of the disclosures into the vague distance ofcasual gossip once more. 

Gradually and slowly he shepherded his patient back to the realms ofself-respect and individual personality. The border-line was at thepoint where the fingers of his customer fluttered at a collar-button; forBerry, who realized the power that lies in making a man look ridiculous, never allowed a customer to be shaved or have his hair cut with a collaron. When his customers had corns, off came the boots also, and thenBerry's triumph over the white man was complete. To call attention to anexaggerated bunion when the odorous towel lay upon the hidden features ofwhat once was a "human, " was the last act in the drama of the Unmaking ofMan. 

Only when the client had felt in his pocket for the price of the flaying, and laid it, with a ten-cent fee, on the ledge beneath the mirror, whereall the implements of the inquisition and the restoration were assembled, did he feel manhood restored. If, however, he tried to keep a vow ofsilence in the chair of execution, he paid a heavy price; for Berry hadhis own methods of punishment. A little tighter grasp of the nose; alittle rougher scrape of the razor, and some sharp, stinging liquidsuddenly slapped with a cold palm on the excoriated spot, with thedevilish hypocrisy of healing it; a longer smothering-period under thetowel, when the corners of it were tucked behind the ears and a crease ofit in the mouth-all these soon induced vocal expression again, and Berrystarted on his inquisition with gentle certainty. When at last he dustedthe face with a little fine flour of oatmeal, "to heal the cuticle and'manoor' the roots, " and smelled with content the hands which hadembalmed the hair in verbena-scented oil, a man left his presencefeeling that he was ready for the wrath to come. 

Such was Berry when he had under his razor one of Ingolby's business foesof Manitou, who had of late been in touch with Felix Marchand. Both wereworking for the same end, but with different intentions. Marchand workedwith that inherent devilishness which sometimes takes possession of lowminds; but the other worked as he would have done against his ownbrother, for his own business success; and it was his view that one mancould only succeed by taking the place of another, as though the Age ofExpansion had ceased and the Age of Smother had begun. 

From this client while in a state of abject subjection, Berry, whoseheart was hard that day, but whose diplomacy was impeccable, discovereda thing of moment. There was to be a procession of strikers from twofactories in Manitou, who would throw down their tools or leave theirmachines at a certain moment. Falling into line these strikers wouldmarch across the bridge between the towns at such time as would bringthem into touch with the line of the Orange funeral--two processionsmeeting at right angles. If neither procession gave way, the Orangefuneral could be broken up, ostensibly not from religious fanaticism, but from the "unhappy accident" of two straight lines colliding. It wasa juicy plot; and in a few minutes the Mayor and Gabriel Druse knew ofit from the faithful Berry. 

The bell of the meeting-house began to toll as the Orangeman whose deathhad caused such commotion was carried to the waiting carriage where hewould ride alone. Almost simultaneously with the starting of the gaudyyet sombre Orange cortege, with its yellow scarfs, glaring banners, charcoal plumes and black clothes, the labour procession approached theManitou end of the Sagalac bridge. The strikers carried only three orfour banners, but they had a band of seven pieces, with a drum and a pairof cymbals. With frequent discord, but with much spirit, the Bleaters, as these musicians were called in Lebanon, inspired the steps of theManitou fanatics and toughs. As they came upon the bridge they wereplaying a gross paraphrase of The Marseillaise. 

At the head of the Orange procession was a silver-cornet band which theenterprise of Lebanon had made possible. Its leader was a ne'er-do-wellyoung Welshman, who had been dismissed from leadership after leadershipof bands in the East till at last he had drifted into Lebanon. Here, strange to say, he had never been drunk but once; and that was the nightbefore he married the widow of a local publican, who had a nice littleblock of stock in one of Ingolby's railways, which yielded her seven percent. , and who knew how to handle the citizens of the City of Booze. When she married Tom Straker, her first husband, he drank on an averagetwenty whiskies a day. She got him down to one; and then he died and hadas fine a funeral as a judge. There were those who said that if Tom'swhiskies hadn't been cut down so--but there it was: Tom was in the bosomof Abraham, and William Jones, who was never called anything else thanWilly Welsh, had been cut down from his unrecorded bibulations to none atall; but he smoked twenty-cent cigars at the ex-widow's expense. 

To-day Willy Welsh played with heart and courage, "I'm Going Home toGlory, " at the head of the Orange procession; for who that has faced sucha widow as was his for one whole year could fear the onset of factionfighters! Besides, as the natives of the South Seas will never eat aChinaman, so a Western man will never kill a musician. Senators, magistrates, sheriffs, police, gamblers, horse-stealers, bankers, andbroncho-riders all die unnatural deaths at times, but a musician in theWest is immune from all except the hand of Fate. Not one can be spared. Even a tough convicted of cheating at cards, or breaking a boom on ariver, has escaped punishment because he played the concertina. 

The discord and jangle between the two bands was the first collision ofthis fateful day. While yet there was a space between the twoprocessions, the bands broke into furious contest. It was then that, through the long funeral line, men with hard-set faces came closer uptogether, and forty, detaching themselves from the well-kept run ofmarching lodgemen, closed up around the horses and the hearse, making asolid flanking force. At stated intervals also, outside the lodgemen inthe lines, were special constables, many of whom had been the stage-drivers, hunters, cattlemen, prospectors, and pioneers of the early days. Most of them had come of good religious stock-Presbyterians, Baptists, Methodists, Unitarians; and though they had little piety, and had neverbeen able to regain the religious customs and habits of their childhood, they "Stood for the Thing the Old Folks stand for. " They were in a moodwhich would tear cotton, as the saying was. There was not one of thembut expected that broken heads and bloodshed would be the order of theday, and they were stonily, fearlessly prepared for the worst. 

Since the appearance of Gabriel Druse on the scene, the feeling had grownthat the luck would be with them. When he started at the head of thecortege, they could scarce forbear to cheer. Such a champion inappearance had never been seen in the West, and, the night before, he had proved his right to the title by shaking a knot of toughs intospots of disconcerted humanity. 

As they approached the crossroads of the bridge, his voice, clear andsonorous, could be heard commanding the Orange band to cease playing. 

When the head of the funeral procession was opposite the bridge--theband, the hearse, the bodyguard of the hearse--Gabriel Druse stood aside, and took his place at the point where the lines of the two processionswould intersect. 

It was at this moment that the collision came. There were only aboutsixty feet of space between the two processions, when a voice rang out ina challenge so offensive, that the men of Manitou got their cue forattack without creating it themselves. Every Orangeman of the Lodge ofLebanon afterwards denied that he had raised the cry; and the chances arethat every one spoke the truth. It was like Felix Marchand to arrangefor just such an episode, and so throw the burden of responsibility onthe Orangemen. 

"To hell with the Pope! To hell with the Pope!" the voice rang out, andit had hardly ceased before the Manitou procession made a rush forward. The apparent leader of the Manitou roughs was a blackbearded man ofmiddle height, who spoke raucously to the crowd behind him. 

Suddenly a powerful voice rang out. 

"Halt, in the name of the Queen!" it called. Surprise is the veryessence of successful war. The roughs of Manitou had not looked forthis. They had foreseen the appearance of the official Chief Constableof Lebanon; they had expected his challenge and warning in thevernacular; but here was something which struck them with consternation--first, the giant of Manitou in the post of command, looking like someberserker; and then the formal reading of that stately document in thename of the Queen. 

Far back in the minds of every French habitant present was the oldmonarchical sense. He makes, at worst, a poor anarchist, though he is agood revolutionist; and the French colonials had never been divorced frommonarchical France. 

In the eyes of the most forward of those on the Sagalac bridge, therewas a sudden wonderment and confusion. To the dramatic French mind, ceremonial is ever welcome; and for a moment it had them in its grip, as old Gabriel Druse read out in his ringing voice, the trenchant royalsummons. 

It was a strange and dramatic scene--the Orange funeral standing still, garish yet solemn, with hundreds of men, rough and coarse, quiet andrefined, dissolute and careless, sober and puritanic, broad and tolerant, sharp and fanatical; the labour procession, polyglot in appearance, butwith Gallic features and looseness of dress predominating; excitable, brutish, generous, cruel; without intellect, but with an intelligencewhich in the lowest was acute, and with temperaments responsive to drama. 

As Druse read, his eyes now and then flashed, at first he knew not why, to the slim, bearded figure of the apparent leader. At length he caughtthe feverish eye of the man, and held it for a moment. It was familiar, but it eluded him; he could not place it. 

He heard, however, Jowett's voice say to him, scarce above a whisper:

"It's Felix Marchand, boss!"

Jowett also had been puzzled at first by the bearded figure, but itsuddenly flashed upon him that the beard and wig were a disguise, thatMarchand had resorted to Ingolby's device. It might prove as dangerousa stratagem with him as it had to Ingolby. 

There was a moment's hesitation after Druse had finished reading--asthough the men of Manitou had not quite recovered from their surprise--then the man with the black beard said something to those nearest him. There was a start forward, and someone cried, "Down with the Orangemen--et bas l'Orange!"

Like a well-disciplined battalion the Orangemen rolled up quickly into acompact mass, showing that they had planned their defence well, and themoment was black with danger, when, suddenly, Druse strode forward. Flinging right and left two or three river-drivers, he caught the manwith the black beard, snatched him out from among the oncoming crowd, and tore off the black beard and wig. Felix Marchand stood exposed. 

A cry of fury rang out from the Orangemen behind, and a dozen men rushedforward, but Gabriel Druse acted with the instant decision of a realcommander. Seeing that it would be a mistake to arrest Marchand at thatmoment, he raised the struggling figure of the wrecker above his headand, with Herculean effort, threw him up over the heads of the Frenchmenin front of him. 

So extraordinary was the sight that, as if fascinated, the crowd beforeand behind followed the action with staring eyes and tense bodies. Thefaces of all the contending forces were as concentrated for the instant, as though the sun were falling out of the sky. It was so great a feat, one so much in consonance with the spirit of the frontier world, thatgasps of praise broke from both crowds. As though it were a thunderbolt, the Manitou roughs standing where Marchand was like to fall, instead oftrying to catch him, broke away from beneath the bundle of fallinghumanity, and Marchand fell on the dusty cement of the bridge with a dullthud, like a bag of bones. 

For a moment there was no motion on the part of either procession. Banners drooped and swayed as the men holding them were lost in theexcitement. 

Time had only been gained, however. There was no reason to think thatthe trouble was over, or that the special constables who had gatheredclose behind Gabriel Druse would not have to strike heavy blows for thecause of peace. 

The sudden appearance of a new figure in the narrow, open space betweenthe factions in that momentary paralysis was not a coincidence. It waswhat Jowett had planned for, the factor for peace in which he mostbelieved. 

A small, spare man in a scarlet cassock, white chasuble, and blackbiretta, suddenly stole out from the crowd on the Lebanon side of thebridge, carrying the elements of the Mass. His face was shining white, and in the eyes was an almost unearthly fire. It was the belovedMonseigneur Lourde. 

Raising the elements before him toward his own people on the bridge, hecried in a high, searching voice:

"I prayed with you, I begged you to preserve the peace. Last night Iasked you in God's name to give up your disorderly purposes. I thoughtthen I had done my whole duty; but the voice of God has spoken to me. An hour ago I carried the elements to a dying woman here in Lebanon, andgave her peace. As I did so the funeral bell rang out, and it came tome, as though the One above had spoken, that peace would be slain and Hisname insulted by all of you--by all of you, Catholic and Protestant. God's voice bade me come to you from the bed of one who has gone hencefrom peace to Peace. In the name of Christ, peace, I say! Peace, in thename of Christ!"

He raised the sacred vessel high above his head, so that his eyes lookedthrough the walls of his uplifted arms. "Kneel!" he called in a clear, ringing voice which yet quavered with age. 

There was an instant's hush, and then great numbers of the crowd in frontof him, toughs and wreckers, blasphemers, turbulent ones and evil-livers, yet Catholics all, with the ancient root of the Great Thing in them, sankdown; and the banners of the labour societies drooped before the symbolof peace won by sacrifice. 

Even the Orangemen bared their heads in the presence of that Popery whichwas anathema to them, which they existed to combat, and had been taughtto hate. Some, no doubt, would rather have fought than have had peace atthe price; but they could not free their minds from the sacred forcewhich had brought most of the crowd of faction-fighters to their knees. 

With a wave of the hand, Gabriel Druse ordered the cortege forward, andsilently the procession with its yellow banners and its sable, droopingplumes moved on. 

Once on its way again, Willy Welsh and his silver-cornet band struck upthe hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light. " It was the one real coincidence of theday that this moving hymn was written by a cardinal of the CatholicChurch. It was also an irony that, as the crowd of sullen Frenchmenturned back to Manitou, the train bearing the Mounted Police, for whomthe Mayor had sent to the capital, steamed noisily in, and redcoatsshowed at its windows and on the steps of the cars. 

The only casualty that the day saw was the broken arm and badly bruisedbody of Felix Marchand, who was gloomily helped back to his home acrossthe Sagalac. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BEACONS

There were few lights showing in Lebanon or Manitou; but here andthere along the Sagalac was the fading glimmer of a camp-fire, and inTekewani's reservation one light glowed softly like a star. It camefrom a finely-made and chased safety-lantern given to Tekewani by theGovernment, as a symbol of honour for having kept the braves quiet whenan Indian and half-breed rising was threatened; and to the powerlesschief it had become a token of his authority, the sign of the Great WhiteMother's approval. By day a spray of eagle's feathers waved over histepee, but the gleam of the brass lantern every night was like a sentryat the doorway of a monarch. 

It was a solace to his wounded spirit; it allayed the smart ofsubjection; made him feel himself a ruler in retirement, even as GabrielDruse was a self-ordained exile. 

These two men, representing the primitive nomad life, had been drawntogether in friendship. So much so, that to Tekewani alone of all theWest, Druse gave his confidence and told his story. It came in thespringtime, when the blood of the young bucks was simmering and, theancient spell was working. There had preceded them generations ofhunters who had slain their thousands and their tens of thousands of wildanimals and the fowls of the air; had killed their enemies in battle; hadseized the comely women of their foes and made them their own. No thrillof the hunter's trail now drew off the overflow of desire. In the daysof rising sap, there were only the young maidens or wives of their owntribe to pursue, and it lacked in glory. Also in the springtime, Tekewani himself had his own trials, for in his blood the old medicinestirred. His face turned towards the prairie North and the mountain Westwhere yet remained the hunter's quarry; and he longed to be away withrifle and gun, with his squaw and the papooses trailing after like camp-followers, to eat the fruits of victory. But that could not be; he mustremain in the place the Great White Mother had reserved for him; he andhis braves must assemble, and draw their rations at the appointed timesand seasons, and grunt thanks to those who ruled over them. 

It was on one of these virginal days, when there was a restless stirringamong the young bucks, who smelled the wide waters, the pines and thewild shrubs; who heard the cry of the loon on the lonely lake and thewhir of the wild duck's wings, who answered to the phantom cry of ancientwar; it was on such a day that the two chiefs opened their hearts to eachother. 

Near to the boscage on a little hill overlooking the great river, GabrielDruse had come upon Tekewani seated in the pine-dust, rocking to and fro, and chanting a low, sorrowful refrain, with eyes fixed on the settingsun. And the Ry of Rys understood, with the understanding which onlythose have who live close to the earth, and also near to the heavens oftheir own gods. He sat down beside the forlorn chief, and in the silencetheir souls spoke to each other. There swept into the veins of theRomany ruler something of the immitigable sadness of the Indian chief;and, with a sudden premonition that he also was come to the sunset of hislife, his big nomad eyes sought the westering rim of the heavens, and hisbreast heaved. 

In that hour the two men declared themselves to each other, and GabrielDruse told Tekewani all that he had hidden from the people of theSagalac, and was answered in kind. It seemed to them that they were asbrothers who were one and who had parted in ages long gone; and havingmet were to part and disappear once more, beginning still another trailin an endless reincarnation. 

"Brother, " said Tekewani, "it was while there was a bridge of landbetween the continents at the North that we met. Again I see it. Iforgot it, but again I see. There was war, and you went upon one pathand I upon another, and we met no more under all the moons till now. "

"'Dordi', so it was and at such a time, " answered the Ry of Rys. "Andonce more we will follow after the fire-flies which give no light to thesafe places but only lead farther into the night. "

Tekewani rocked to and fro again, muttering to himself, but presently hesaid:

"We eat from the hands of those who have driven away the buffalo, thedeer, and the beaver; and the young bucks do naught to earn the joy ofwomen. They are but as lusting sheep, not as the wild-goat that chasesits mate over the places of death, till it comes upon her at last, andcalls in triumph over her as she kneels at his feet. So it is. Liketame beasts we eat from the hand of the white man, and the white manleaves his own camp where his own women are, and prowls in our camps, so that not even our own women are left to us. "

It was then that Gabriel Druse learned of the hatred of Tekewani forFelix Marchand, because of what he had done in the reservation, prowlingat night like a fox or a coyote in the folds. 

They parted that hour, believing that the epoch of life in which theywere and the fortunes of time which had been or were to come, were butturns of a wheel that still went on turning; and that whatever chancedof good or bad fortune in the one span of being, might be repaired inthe next span, or the next, or the next; so, through their creed ofreincarnation, taking courage to face the failure of the life they nowlived. Not by logic or the teaching of any school had they reached thisrevelation, but through an inner sense. They were not hopeful andwondering and timid; they were only sure. Their philosophy, theirreligion, whether heathen or human, was inborn. They had comfort in itand in each other. 

After that day Gabriel Druse always set a light in his window whichburned all night, answering to the lantern-light at the door ofTekewani's home--the lights of exile and of an alliance which hadbehind it the secret influences of past ages and vanished peoples. 

There came a night, however, when the light at the door of Tekewani'stepee did not burn. At sunset it was lighted, but long before midnightit was extinguished. Looking out from the doorway of his home (it wasthe night after the Orange funeral), Gabriel Druse, returned from his newduties at Lebanon, saw no light in the Indian reservation. With anxiety, he set forth in the shine of the moon to visit it. 

Arrived at the chief's tepee, he saw that the lantern of honour was gone, and waking Tekewani, he brought him out to see. When the old Indian knewhis loss, he gave a harsh cry and stooped, and, gathering a handful ofdust from the ground, sprinkled it on his head. Then with armsoutstretched he cursed the thief who had robbed him of what had beento him like a never-fading mirage, an illusion blinding his eyes to thebitter facts of his condition. 

To his mind all the troubles come to Lebanon and Manitou had had onesource; and now the malign spirit had stretched its hand to spoil thosealready dispossessed of all but the right to live. One name was upon thelips of both men, as they stood in the moonlight by Tekewani's tepee. 

"There shall be an end of this, " growled the Romany. 

"I will have my own, " said Tekewani, with malediction on the thief whohad so shamed him. 

Black anger was in the heart of Gabriel Druse as he turned again towardshis own home, and he was glad of what he had done to Felix Marchand atthe Orange funeral. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE KEEPER OF THE BRIDGE

 "Like the darkness of the grave, which is darkness itself--"

Most of those who break out of the zareba of life, who lay violent handsupon themselves, do so with a complete reasoning, which in itself isproof of their insanity. It may be domestic tragedy, or ill-health, or crime, or broken faith, or shame, or insomnia, or betrayed trust--whatever it is, many a one who suffers from such things, tries to end itall with that deliberation, that strategy, and that cunning which belongonly to the abnormal. 

A mind which has known a score or more of sleepless nights acquires aninvincible clearness of its own, seeing an end which is withoutperadventure. It finds a hundred perfect reasons for not going on, everyone of which is in itself sufficient; every one of which knits into theother ninety and nine with inevitable affinity. 

To the mind of Ingolby came a hundred such reasons for breaking out oflife's enclosure, as the effect of the opiate Rockwell had given him woreoff, and he regained consciousness. As he did so, someone in the roomwas telling of that intervention of Gabriel Druse and the Monseigneur atthe Orange funeral, which had saved the situation. At first he listenedto what was said--it was the nurse talking to Jim Beadle with no sharpperception of the significance of the story; though it slowly pierced thelethargy of his senses, and he turned over in the bed to face thewatchers. 

"What time is it, Jim?" he asked heavily. They told him it was sunset. 

"Is it quiet in both towns?" he asked after a pause. They told him thatit was. 

"Any telegrams for me?" he asked. 

There was an instant's hesitation. They had had no instructions on thispoint, and they hardly knew what to say; but Jim's mind had its ownlogic, and the truth seemed best to him now. He answered that there wereseveral wires, but that they "didn't amount to nothin'. "

"Have they been opened?" Ingolby asked with a frown, half-raisinghimself. It was hard to resign the old masterfulness and self-will. 

"I'd like to see anybody open 'em 'thout my pe'mision, " answered Jimimperiously. "When you's asleep, Chief, I'm awake; and I take care ofyou' things, same as ever I done. There ain't no wires been opened, andthere ain't goin' to be whiles I'm runnin' the show for you. "

"Open and read them to me, " commanded Ingolby. Again Ingolby wasconscious of hesitation on Jim's part. Already the acuteness of theblind was possessing him, sharpening the senses left unimpaired. Although Jim moved, presumably, towards the place where the telegramslay, Ingolby realized that his own authority was being crossed by thatof the doctor and the nurse. 

"You will leave the room for a moment, nurse, " he said with a brassyvibration in the voice--a sign of nervous strain. With a smotheredprotest the nurse left, and Jim stood beside the bed with the telegrams. 

"Read them to me, Jim, " Ingolby repeated irritably. "Be quick. "

They were not wires which Ingolby should have heard at the time, when hiswound was still inflamed, when he was still on the outer circle of thatartificial sleep which the opiates had secured. They were from Montrealand New York, and, resolved from their half-hidden suggestion into bareelements, they meant that henceforth others would do the work he haddone. They meant, in effect, that save for the few scores of thousanddollars he had made, he was now where he was when he came West. 

When Jim had finished reading them, Ingolby sank back on the pillows andsaid quietly:

"All right, Jim. Put them in the drawer of the table and I'll answerthem to-morrow. I want to get a little more sleep, so give me a drink, and then leave me alone--both nurse and you--till I ring the bell. There's a bell on the table, isn't there?"

He stretched out a hand towards the table beside the bed, and Jim softlypushed the bell under his fingers. 

"That's right, " he added. "Now, I'm not to be disturbed unless thedoctor comes. I'm all right, and I want to be alone and quiet. No oneat all in the room is what I want. You understand, Jim?"

"My head's just as good to get at what you want as ever it was, and yougoin' have what you want, I guess, while I'm on deck, " was Jim's reply. 

Jim put a glass of water into his hand. He drank very slowly, was indeedonly mechanically conscious that he was drinking, for his mind was faraway. 

After he had put the glass down, Jim still stood beside the bed, lookingat him. 

"Why don't you go, as I tell you, Jim?" Ingolby asked wearily. 

"I'm goin'"--Jim tucked the bedclothes in carefully--"I'm goin', but, boss, I jes' want to say dat dis thing goin' to come out all right bime-by. There ain't no doubt 'bout dat. You goin' see everything, come jes'like what you want--suh!"

Ingolby did not reply. He held out his hand, and black fingers shot overand took it. A moment later the blind man was alone in the room. 

The light of day vanished, and the stars came out. There was no moon, but it was one of those nights of the West when millions of stars glimmerin the blue vault above, and every planet and every star and cluster ofstars are so near that it might almost seem they could be caught by anexpert human hand. The air was very still, and a mantle of peace wasspread over the tender scene. The window and the glass doors that gavefrom Ingolby's room upon the veranda on the south side of the house, wereopen, and the air was warm as in Midsummer. Now and then the note of anight-bird broke the stillness, but nothing more. 

It was such a night as Ingolby loved; it was such a night as often foundhim out in the restful gloom of the trees, thinking and brooding, planning, revelling in memories of books he had read, and in dreaming ofbooks he might write-if there were time. Such a night insulated the darkmoods which possessed him occasionally almost as effectively as fishingdid; and that was saying much. 

But the darkest mood of all his days was upon him now. When Rockwellcame, soon after Jim and the nurse left him, he simulated sleep, for hehad no mind to talk; and the doctor, deceived by his even breathing, hadleft, contented. At last he was wholly alone with his own thoughts, ashe desired. From the moment Jim had read him the wires, which were thereal revelation of the situation to which he had come, he had beentravelling hard on the road leading to a cul-de-sac, from which therewas no egress save by breaking through the wall. Never, it might haveseemed, had his mind been clearer, but it was a clearness belonging tothe abnormal. It was a straight line of thought which, in its intensity, gathered all other thoughts into its wake, reduced them to the control ofan obsession. It was borne in on his mind that his day was done, thatnothing could right the disorder which had strewn his path with brokenhopes and shattered ambitions. No life-work left, no schemes toaccomplish, no construction to achieve, no wealth to gain, no publicgood to be won, no home to be his, no woman, his very own, to be hiscounsellor and guide in the natural way!

As myriad thoughts drove through his brain on this Indian-summer night, they all merged into the one obsession that he could no longer stay. Theirresistible logic of the brain stretched to an abnormal tenuity, and anintolerable brightness was with him. He was in the throes of thatintense visualization which comes with insomnia, when one is awake yetapart from the waking world, where nothing is really real and nothingnormal. He had a call to go hence, and he must go. Minute after minutepassed, hours passed, and the fight of the soul to maintain itselfagainst the disordered mind went on. All his past seemed but partof a desert, lonely and barren and strange. 

In the previous year he had made a journey to Arizona with Jowett, to seesome railway construction there, and at a ranch he had visited he cameupon some verses which had haunted his mind ever since. They fastenedupon his senses now. They were like a lonesome monotone which at lengthgave calm to his torturing reflections. In his darkness the verses keptrepeating themselves:

 "I heard the desert calling, and my heart stood still There was Winter in my world and in my heart: A breath came from the mesa and a message stirred my will, And my soul and I arose up to depart. 

 I heard the desert calling; and I knew that over there, In an olive-sheltered garden where the mesquite grows, Was a woman of the sunrise, with the starshine in her hair, And a beauty that the almond-blossom blows. 

 In the night-time when the ghost-trees glimmered in the moon, Where the mesa by the watercourse was spanned, Her loveliness enwrapped me like the blessedness of June, And all my life was thrilling in her hand. 

 I hear the desert calling, and my heart stands still; There is Summer in my world and in my heart; A breath comes from the mesa, and a will beyond my will Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart. "

This strange, half-mystic song of the mesa and the olive-groves, of theghost-trees and the moon, kept playing upon his own heated senses likethe spray from a cooling stream, and at last it quieted him. The darkspirit of self-destruction loosened its hold. 

His brain had been strained beyond the normal, almost unconsciously hisfingers had fastened on the pistol in the drawer of the table by his bed. It had been there since the day when he had travelled down from Alaska--loaded as it had been when he had carried it down the southern trail. But as his fingers tightened on the little engine of death, from thewords which had been ringing in his brain came the flash of a revelation:

 ". . . And a will beyond my will Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart. "

A will beyond his will! It was as though Fleda's fingers were laid uponhis own; as though she whispered in his ear and her breath swept hischeek; as though she was there in the room beside him, making thedarkness light, tempering the wind of chastisement to his naked soul. In the overstrain of his nervous system the illusion was powerful. Hethought he heard her voice. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and hefell back on the pillow with a sigh. The will beyond his will bound hisfootsteps. 

Who can tell? The grim, malign experience of Fleda in her bedroom withthe Thing she thought was from beyond the bounds of her own life; thevoice that spoke to Ingolby, and the breath that swept over his cheekwere, perhaps, as real in a sense as would have been the corporealpresence of Jethro Fawe in one case and of Fleda Druse in the other. It may be that in very truth Fleda Druse's spirit with its poignantsolicitude controlled his will as he "rose up to depart. " But if it wasonly an illusion, it was not less a miracle. Some power of suggestionbound his fleeing footsteps, drew him back from the Brink. 

He slept. Once the nurse came and looked at him and returned to theother room; and twice Jim stole in silently for a moment and retiredagain to his own chamber. The stars shone in at the doors that openedout from the quiet room into the night, the watch beside the bed tickedon, the fox-terrier which always slept on a mat at the foot of the bedsighed in content, while his master breathed heavily in a sleep full ofdreams that hurried past like phantasmagoria--of a hundred things thathad been in his life, and that had never been; of people he had known, distorted, ridiculous and tremendous. There were dreams of fiddlers andbarbers, of crowds writhing in passion in a room where there was abilliard-table and a lucky horseshoe on the wall. There were dreams thattossed and mingled in one whirlpool vision; and then at last came a dreamwhich was so cruel and clear that it froze his senses. 

It was the dream of a great bridge over a swiftflowing river; of his ownbridge over the Sagalacof that bridge being destroyed by men who creptthrough the night with dynamite in their hands. 

With a hoarse, smothered cry he awoke. His eyes opened wide. His heartwas beating like a hammer against his side. Only the terrier at his feetheard the muttered agony. With an instinct all its own, it slipped tothe floor. 

It watched its master get out of bed, cross the room and feel for a coatalong the wall--an overcoat which he used as a dressing-gown at times. Putting it on hastily, with outstretched hands Ingolby felt his way tothe glass doors opening on the veranda. The dog, as though to let himknow he was there, rubbed against his legs. Ingolby murmured a soft, unintelligible word, and, in his bare feet, passed out on to the veranda, and from there to the garden and towards the gate at the front of thehouse. 

The nurse heard the gate click lightly, but she was only half-awake, andas all was quiet in the next room, she composed herself in her chairagain with the vain idea that she was not sleeping. And Jim the faithfulone, as though under a narcotic of fate, was snoring softly beside thevacant room. The streets were still. No lights burned anywhere so faras eye could see. But now and then, in the stillness through which theriver flowed on, murmuring and rhythmic, there rose the distant sounds ofdisorderly voices. Ingolby was in a state which was neither sleep norwaking, which was in part delirium, in part oblivion to all things in theworld save one--an obsession so complete, that he moved automaticallythrough the street in which he lived towards that which led to thebridge. 

His terrier, as though realizing exactly what he wished, seemed to guidehim by rubbing against his legs, and even pressing hard against them whenhe was in any danger of losing the middle of the road, or swervingtowards a ditch or some obstruction. Only once did they pass any humanbeing, and that was when they came upon a camp of road-builders, where ared light burned, and two men slept in the open by a dying fire. One ofthem raised his head when Ingolby passed, but being more than half-asleep, and seeing only a man and a dog, thought nothing of it, anddropped back again upon his rough pillow. He was a stranger to Lebanon, and there was little chance of his recognizing Ingolby in the semi-darkness. 

As they neared the river, Ingolby became deeply agitated. He moved withhis hands outstretched. Had it not been for his dog he would probablyhave walked into the Sagalac; for though he seemed to have an instinctthat was extra-natural, he swayed and staggered in the delirium drivinghim on. There was one dreadful moment when, having swerved from the roadleading on to the bridge, he was within a foot of the river-bank. Onestep farther, and he would have plunged down thirty feet into the stream, to be swept to the Rapids below. 

But for the first time the terrier made a sound. He gave a whining barkalmost human in its meaning, and threw himself at the legs of his master, pushing him backwards and over towards the road leading upon the bridge, as a collie guides sheep. Presently Ingolby felt the floor of the bridgeunder his feet; and now he hastened on, with outstretched arms and headbent forward, listening intently, the dog trotting beside, with whatknowledge working in him Heaven alone knew. 

The roar of the Rapids below was a sonorous accompaniment to Ingolby'swild thoughts. One thing only he felt, one thing only heard--the men inBarbazon's Tavern saying that the bridge should be blown up on theSaturday night; and this was Saturday night--the night of the dayfollowing that of the Orange funeral. He had heard the criminal hirelingof Felix Marchand say that it should be done at midnight, and that theexplosive should be laid under that part of the bridge which joined theManitou bank of the Sagalac. As though in very truth he saw with hiseyes, he stopped short not far from the point where the bridge joined theland, and stood still, listening. 

For several minutes he was motionless, intent, as an animal waiting forits foe. At last his newly-sensitive ears heard footsteps approachingand low voices. The footsteps came nearer, the voices, though so low, became more distinct. They were now not fifty feet away, but to thedelirious Ingolby they were as near as death had been when his fingersclosed on the pistol in his room. 

He took a step forward, and with passionate voice and arms outstretched, he cried:

 "You shall not do it-by God, you shall not touch my bridge! I built it. You shall not touch it. Back, you devils-back!"

The terrier barked loudly. 

The two men in the semi-darkness in front of him cowered at the sight ofthis weird figure holding the bridge they had come to destroy. Hiswords, uttered in so strange and unnatural a voice, shook their nerves. They shrank away from the ghostly form with the outstretched arms. 

In the minute's pause following on his words, a giant figure suddenlyappeared behind the dynamiters. It was the temporary Chief Constable ofLebanon, returning from his visit to Tekewani. He had heard Ingolby'swild words, and he realized the situation. 

"Ingolby--steady there, Ingolby !" he called. "Steady! Steady!Gabriel Druse is here. It's all right. "

At the first sound of Druse's voice the two wreckers turned and ran. 

As they did so, Ingolby's hands fell to his side, and he staggeredforward. 

"Druse--Fleda, " he murmured, then swayed, trembled and fell. 

With words that stuck in his throat Gabriel Druse stooped and lifted himup in his arms. At first he turned towards the bridge, as though tocross over to Lebanon, but the last word Ingolby had uttered rangin his ears, and he carried him away into the trees towards his ownhouse, the faithful terrier following. "Druse--Fleda !" They were thewords of one who had suddenly emerged from the obsession of delirium intosanity, and then had fallen into as sudden unconsciousness. 

"Fleda! Fleda!" called Gabriel Druse outside the door of his house aquarter of an hour later, and her voice in reply was that of one who knewthat the feet of Fate were at her threshold. 

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