THE WORLD FOR SALE

By Gilbert Parker

BOOK III

XX. TWO LIFE PIECESXXI. THE SNARE OF THE FOWLERXXII. THE SECRET MANXXIII. THE RETURN OF BELISARIUSXXIV. AT LONG LASTXXV. MAN PROPOSESXXVI. THE SLEEPERXXVII. THE WORLD FOR SALE

CHAPTER XX

TWO LIFE PIECES

"It's a fine day. "

"Yes, it's beautiful. "

Fleda wanted to ask how he knew, but hesitated from feelings of delicacy. Ingolby seemed to understand. A faint reflection of the old whimsicalsmile touched his lips, and his hands swept over the coverlet as thoughsmoothing out a wrinkled map. 

"The blind man gets new senses, " he said dreamily. "I feel things whereI used to see them. How did I know it was a fine day? Simple enough. When the door opened there was only the lightest breath of wind, and theair was fresh and crisp, and I could smell the sun. One sense less, moredegree of power to the other senses. The sun warms the air, gives it aflavour, and between it and the light frost, which showed that it was dryoutside, I got the smell of a fine Fall day. Also, I heard the cry ofthe wild fowl going South, and they wouldn't have made a sound if ithadn't been a fine day. And also, and likewise, and besides, andhowsomever, I heard Jim singing, and that nigger never sings in badweather. Jim's a fair-weather raven, and this morning he was singinglike a 'lav'rock in the glen. '"

Being blind, he could not see that, suddenly, a storm of emotion sweptover her face. 

His cheerfulness, his boylike simplicity, his indomitable spirit, whichhad survived so much, and must still face so much, his almost childlikeways, and the naive description of a blind man's perception, waked in heran almost intolerable yearning. It was not the yearning of a maid for aman. It was the uncontrollable woman in her, the mother-thing, belongingto the first woman that ever was-protection of the weak, hovering lovefor the suffering, the ministering spirit. 

Since Ingolby had been brought to the house in the pines, Madame Bulteeland herself, with Jim, had nursed him through the Valley of the Shadow. They had nursed him through brain-fever, through agonies which could nothave been borne with consciousness. The tempest of the mind and thepains of misfortune went on from hour to hour, from day to day, almostwithout ceasing, until at last, a shadow of his former self, but with awonderful light on his face which came from something within, he waitedpatiently for returning strength, propped up with pillows in the bedwhich had been Fleda's own, in the room outside which Jethro Fawe hadsung his heathen serenade. 

It was the room of the house which, catching the morning sun, was bestsuited for an invalid. So she had given it to him with an eagernessbehind which was the feeling that somehow it made him more of the innercircle of her own life; for apart from every other feeling she had, therewas in her a deep spirit of comradeship belonging to far-off times whenher life was that of the open road, the hillside and the vale. In thosedays no man was a stranger; all belonged. 

To meet, and greet, and pass was the hourly event, but the meeting andthe greeting had in it the familiarity of a common wandering, thesympathy of the homeless. Had Ingolby been less to her than he was, there would still have been the comradeship which made her the greatcreature she was fast becoming. It was odd that, as Ingolby becamethinner and thinner, and ever more wan, she, in spite of her ceaselessnursing, appeared to thrive physically. She had even slightly increasedthe fulness of her figure. The velvet of her cheeks had grown richer, and her eyes deeper with warm fire. It was as though she flourished ongiving: as though a hundred nerves of being and feeling had opened upwithin her and had expanded her life like some fine flower. 

Gazing at Ingolby now there was a great hungering desire in her heart. She looked at the sightless eyes, and a passionate protest sprang to herlips which, in spite of herself, broke forth in a sort of moan. 

"What is it?" Ingolby asked, with startled face. 

"Nothing, " she answered, "nothing. I pricked my finger badly, that'sall. "

And, indeed, she had done so, but that would not have brought the moan toher lips. 

"Well, it didn't sound like a pricked finger complaint, " he remarked. "It was the kind of groan I'd give if I had a bad pain inside. "

"Ah, but you're a man!" she remarked lightly, though two tears fell downher cheeks. 

With an effort she recovered herself. "It's time for your tonic, " sheadded, and she busied herself with giving it to him. "As soon as youhave taken it, I'm going for a walk, so you must make up your mind tohave some sleep. "

"Am I to be left alone?" he asked, with an assumed grievance in hisvoice. 

"Madame Bulteel will stay with you, " she replied. 

"Do you need a walk so very badly?" he asked presently. 

"I don't suppose I need it, but I want it, " she answered. "My feet andthe earth are very friendly. "

"Where do you walk?" he asked. 

"Just anywhere, " was her reply. "Sometimes up the river, sometimes down, sometimes miles away in the woods. "

"Do you never take a gun with you?"

"Of course, " she answered, nodding, as though he could see. "I get wildpigeons and sometimes a wild duck or a prairie-hen. "

"That's right, " he remarked; "that's right. "

"I don't believe in walking just for the sake of walking, " she continued. "It doesn't do you any good, but if you go for something and get it, that's what puts the mind and the body right. "

Suddenly his face grew grave. "Yes, that's it, " he remarked. 

"To go for something you want, a long way off. You don't feel the fagwhen you're thinking of the thing at the end; but you've got to have thething at the end, to keep making for it, or there's no good going--noneat all. That's life; that's how it is. It's no good only walking--you've got to walk somewhere. It's no good simply going--you've got togo somewhere. You've got to fight for something. That's why, when theytake the something you fight for away--when they break you and crippleyou, and you can't go anywhere for what you want badly, life isn't worthliving. "

An anxious look came into her face. This was the first time, sincerecovering consciousness, that he had referred, even indirectly, to allthat had happened. She understood him well--ah, terribly well! It wasthe tragedy of the man stopped in his course because of one mistake, though he had done ten thousand wise things. The power taken from hishands, the interrupted life, the dark future, the beginning again, ifever his sight came back: it was sickening, heartbreaking. 

She saw it all in his face, but as if some inward voice had spoken tohim, his face cleared, the swift-moving hands clasped in front of him, and he said quietly: "But because it's life, there it is. You have totake it as it comes. "

He stopped a moment, and in the pause she reached out her hand with asudden passionate gesture, to touch his shoulder, but she restrainedherself in time. 

He seemed to feel what she was doing, and turned his face towards her, a slight flush coming to his cheeks. He smiled, and then he said: "Howwonderful you are! You look--"

He checked himself, then added with a quizzical smile:

"You are looking very well to-day, Miss Fleda Druse, very well indeed. I like that dark-red dress you're wearing. "

An almost frightened look came into her eyes. It was as though he couldsee, for she was wearing a dark-red dress--"wine-coloured, " her fathercalled it, "maroon, " Madame Bulteel called it. Could he then see, afterall?

"How did you know it was dark-red?" she asked, her voice shaking. 

"Guessed it! Guessed it!" he answered almost gleefully. "Was I right?Is it dark-red?"

"Yes, dark-red, " she answered. "Was it really a guess?"

"Ah, but the guessiest kind of a guess, " he replied. "But who can tell?I couldn't see it, but is there any reason why the mind shouldn't seewhen the eyes are no longer working? Come now, " he added, "I've afeeling that I can tell things with my mind just as if I saw them. I dosee. I'll guess the time now--with my mind's eye. "

Concentration came into his face. "It's three minutes to twelveo'clock, " he said decisively. 

She took up the watch which lay on the table beside the bed. 

"Yes, it's just three minutes to twelve, " she declared in an awe-struckvoice. "That's marvellous--how wonderful you are!"

"That's what I said of you a minute ago, " he returned. Then, with aswift change of voice and manner, he added, "How long is it?"

"You mean, since you came here?" she asked, divining what was in hismind. 

"Exactly. How long?"

"Six weeks, " she answered. "Six weeks and three days. "

"Why don't you add the hour, too, " he urged half-plaintively, though hesmiled. 

"Well, it was three o'clock in the morning to the minute, " she answered. 

"Old Father Time ought to make you his chief of staff, " he remarkedgaily. "Now, I want to know, " he added, with a visible effort ofdetermination, "what has happened since three o'clock in the morning, six weeks and three days ago. I want you to tell me what has happenedto my concerns--to the railways, and also to the towns. I don't want youto hide anything, because, if you do, I'll have Jim in, and Jim, underproper control, will tell me the whole truth, and perhaps more than thetruth. That's the way with Jim. When he gets started he can't stop. Tell me exactly everything. "

Anxiety drove the colour from her cheeks. She shrank back. 

"You must tell me, " he urged. "I'd rather hear it from you than fromDr. Rockwell, or Jim, or your father. Your telling wouldn't hurt as muchas anybody else's, if there has to be any hurt. Don't you understand--but don't you understand?" he urged. 

She nodded to herself in the mirror on the wall opposite. "I'll try tounderstand, " she replied presently; "Tell me, then: have they put someonein my place?"

"I understand so, " she replied. 

He remained silent for a moment, his face very pale. "Who is running theshow?" he asked. 

She told him. 

"Oh, him!" he exclaimed. "He's dead against my policy. He'll make amess. "

"They say he's doing that, " she remarked. 

He asked her a series of questions which she tried to answer frankly, andhe came to know that the trouble between the two towns, which, after theOrange funeral and his own disaster had subsided, was up again; that therailways were in difficulties; that there had been several failures inthe town; that one of the banks--the Regent-had closed its doors; thatFelix Marchand, having recovered from the injury he had received fromGabriel Druse on the day of the Orange funeral, had gone East for a monthand had returned; that the old trouble was reviving in the mills, andthat Marchand had linked himself with the enemies of the groupcontrolling the railways hitherto directed by himself. 

For a moment after she had answered his questions, there was strongemotion in his face, and then it cleared. 

He reached out a hand towards her. How eagerly she clasped it! It wascold, and hers was so warm and firm and kind. 

"True friend o' mine!" he said with feeling. "How wonderful it is thatsomehow it all doesn't seem to matter so much. I wonder why? I wonder--Tell me about yourself, about your life, " he added abruptly, as though ithad been a question he had long wished to ask. In the tone was a quietcertainty suggesting that she would not hesitate to answer. 

"We have both had big breaks in our lives, " he went on. "I know that. I've lost everything, in a way, by the break in my life, and I've an ideathat you gained everything when the break in yours came. I didn'tbelieve the story Jethro Fawe told me, but still I knew there was sometruth in it; something that he twisted to suit himself. I started lifefeeling I could conquer the world like another Alexander or Napoleon. I don't know that it was all conceit. It was the wish to do, to see howfar this thing on my shoulders"--he touched his head--"and this greatphysical machine"--he touched his breast with a thin hand--"would carryme. I don't believe the main idea was vicious. It was wanting to worka human brain to its last volt of capacity, and to see what it could do. I suppose I became selfish as I forged on. I didn't mean to be, butconcentration upon the things I had to do prevented me from being thething I ought to be. I wanted, as they say, to get there. I had a lotof irons in the fire--too many--but they weren't put there deliberately. One thing led to another, and one thing, as it were, hung upon another, until they all got to be part of the scheme. Once they got there, I hadto carry them all on, I couldn't drop any of them; they got to be mylife. It didn't matter that it all grew bigger and bigger, and the risksgot greater and greater. I thought I could weather it through, and so Icould have done, if it hadn't been for a mistake and an accident; but themistake was mine. That's where the thing nips--the mistake was mine. I took too big a risk. You see, I'd got so used to being lucky, itseemed as if I couldn't go wrong. Everything had come my way. Eversince I began in that Montreal railway office, after leaving college, I hadn't a single setback. I pulled things off. I made money, and Iplumped it all into my railways and the Regent Bank; and as you saida minute ago, the Regent Bank has closed down. That cuts me clean outof the game. What was the matter with the bank? The manager?"

His voice was almost monotonous in its quietness. It was as though hetold the story of something which had passed beyond chance or change. As it unfolded to her understanding, she had seated herself near to hisbed. The door of the room was open, and in view outside on the landingsat Madame Bulteel reading. She was not, however, near enough to hearthe conversation. 

Ingolby's voice was low, but it sounded as loud as a waterfall in theears of the girl, who, in a few weeks, had travelled great distances onthe road called Experience, that other name for life. 

"It was the manager?" he repeated. 

"Yes, they say so, " she answered. "He speculated with bank money. "

"In what?"

"In your railways, " she answered hesitatingly. "Curious--I dreamedthat, " Ingolby remarked quietly, and leaned down and stroked the doglying at his feet. It had been with him through all his sickness. "It must have been part of my delirium, because, now that I've got mysenses back, it's as though someone had told me about it. Speculated inmy railways, eh? Chickens come home to roost, don't they? I suppose Iought to be excited over it all, " he continued. "I suppose I ought. Butthe fact is, you only have just the one long, big moment of excitementwhen great trouble and tragedy come, or else it's all excitement, all thetime, and then you go mad. That's the test, I think. When you're struckby Fate, as a hideous war-machine might strike you, and the whole terrorof loss and ruin bears down on you, you're either swept away in anexcitement that hasn't any end, or you brace yourself, and becomemaster of the shattering thing. "

"You are a master, " she interposed. "You are the Master Man, " sherepeated admiringly. 

He waved a hand deprecatingly. "Do you know, when we talked together inthe woods soon after you ran the Rapids--you remember the day--if you hadsaid that to me then, I'd have cocked my head and thought I was a jim-dandy, as they say. A Master Man was what I wanted to be. But it's apretty barren thing to think, or to feel, that you're a Master Man;because, if you are--if you've had a 'scoop' all the way, as Jowett callsit, you can be as sure as anything that no one cares a rap farthing whathappens to you. There are plenty who pretend they care, but it's onlybecause they're sailing with the wind, and with your even keel. It'sonly the Master Man himself that doesn't know in the least he's that whogets anything out of it all. "

"Aren't you getting anything out of it?" she asked softly. "Aren't you--Chief?"

At the familiar word--Jowett always called him Chief--a smile slowlystole across his face. "I really believe I am, thanks to you, " he saidnodding. 

He was going to say, "Thanks to you, Fleda, " but he restrained himself. He had no right to be familiar, to give an intimate turn to things. Hisgame was over; his journey of ambition was done. He saw this girl withhis mind's eye--how much he longed to see her with the eyes of the body--in all her strange beauty; and he knew that even if she cared for him, such a sacrifice as linking her life with his was impossible. Yet hervery presence there was like a garden of bloom to him: a garden full ofthe odour of life, of vital things, of sweet energy and happy being. Somehow, he and she were strangely alike. He knew it. From the timehe held her in his arms at Carillon, he knew it. The great adventurousspirit which was in him belonged also to her. That was as sure as lightand darkness. 

"No, there's no master man in me, but I think I know what one could belike, " he remarked at last. He straightened himself against the pillows. The old look of power came to a face hardly strong enough to bear it. It was so fine and thin now, and the spirit in him was so prodigious. 

"No one cares what happens to the man who always succeeds; no one loveshim, " he continued. "Do you know, in my trouble I've had more out ofnigger Jim's affection than I've ever had in my life. Then there'sRockwell, Osterhaut and Jowett, and there's your father. It was worthwhile living to feel the real thing. " His hands went out as thoughgrasping something good and comforting. "I don't suppose every man needsto be struck as hard as I've been to learn what's what, but I've learnedit. I give you my word of honour, I've learned it. "

Her face flushed and her eyes kindled greatly. "Jim, Rockwell, Osterhaut, Jowett, and my father!" she exclaimed. "Of course troublewouldn't do anything but make them come closer round you. Poor peoplelive so near to misfortune all the time--I mean poor people like Jim, Osterhaut, and Jowett--that changes of fortune are just natural things tothem. As for my father, he has had to stretch out his hands so often tothose in trouble--"

"That he carried me home on his shoulders from the bridge six weeks andthree days ago, at three o'clock in the morning, " interjected Ingolbywith a quizzical smile. 

"Why did you omit Madame Bulteel and myself when you mentioned those whoshowed their--friendship?" she asked, hesitating at the last word. "Haven't we done our part?"

"I was talking of men, " he answered. "One knows what women do. They mayleave you in the bright days, not in the dark days. On the majority ofthem you couldn't rely in prosperity, but in misfortune you couldn't doanything else. They are there with you. They're made that way. Thebest life can give you in misfortune is a woman. It's the greatbeginning-of-the-world thing in them. Men can't stand prosperity, butwomen can stand misfortune. Why, if Jim and Osterhaut and Jowett and allthe men of Lebanon and Manitou had deserted me, I shouldn't have beensurprised; but I'd have had to recast my philosophy if Fleda Druse hadturned her bonny brown head away. "

It was evident he was making an effort to conquer emotions which wererising in him; that he was playing on the surface to prevent his deepfeelings from breaking forth. "Instead of which, " he added jubilantly, "here I am, in the nicest room in the world, in a fine bed with springslike an antelope's heels. "

He laughed, and hunched his back into the mattress. It was the laugh ofthe mocker, but he was mocking himself. She did not misunderstand. Itwas a nice room, as he said. He had never seen it with his eyes, but ifhe had seen it he would have realized how like herself it was--adorablyfresh, happily coloured, sumptuous and fine. It had simple curtains, white sheets, and a warm carpet on the floor; and yet with something, too, that struck the note of a life outside. A pennant of many colourshung where two soft pink curtains joined, and at the window and over thedoor was an ancient cross in bronze and gold. It was not the simpleChristian cross of the modern world, but an ancient one which had becomea symbol of the Romanys, a sign to mark the highways, the guide of thewayfarers. The pennant had been on the pole of the Ry's tent in far-offdays in the Roumelian country. In the girl herself there was that whichcorresponded to the gorgeous pennant and the bronze cross. It was not indress or in manner, for there was no sign of garishness, of the unusualanywhere--in manner she was as well controlled as any woman of fashion, in dress singularly reserved--but in the depths of the eyes there wassome restless, unsettled thing, some flicker of strange banners akin tothe pennant at the joining of the pink curtains. There had beensomething of the same look in Ingolby's eyes in the past, only with himit was the sense of great adventure, intrepid enterprise, a touch ofvision and the beckoning thing. That look was not in his eyes now. Nothing was there; no life, no soul; only darkness. But did that lookstill inhabit the eyes of the soul?

He answered the question himself. "I'd start again in a different way ifI could, " he said musingly, his face towards the girl. "It's easy to saythat, but I would. It isn't only the things you get, it's how you usethem. It isn't only the things you do, it's why you do them. But I'llnever have a chance now; I'll never have a chance to try the new way. I'm done. "

Something almost savage leaped into her eyes--a wild, bitter protest, forit was her tragedy, too, if he was not to regain his sight. The greatimpulse of a nature which had been disciplined into reserve broke forth. 

"It isn't so, " she said with a tremor in her voice. All that he--andshe--was in danger of losing came home to her. "It isn't so. You shallget well again. Your sight will come back. To-morrow; perhaps to-day, Hindlip, the great oculist comes from New York. Mr. Warbeck, theMontreal man, holds out hopes. If the New York man says the same, why despair? Perhaps in another month you will be on your feet again, out in the world, fighting, working, mastering, just as you used to do. "

A sudden stillness seemed to take possession of him. His lips parted;his head was thrust forwards slightly as though he saw something in thedistance. He spoke scarcely above a whisper. 

"I didn't know the New York man was coming. I didn't know there was anyhope at all, " he said with awe in his tones. 

"We told you there was, " she answered. 

"Yes, I know. But I thought you were all only trying to make it easierfor me, and I heard Warbeck say to Rockwell, when they thought I wasasleep, 'It's ten to one against him. '"

"Did you hear that?" she said sorrowfully. "I'm so sorry; but Mr. Warbeck said afterwards--only a week ago--that the chances were even. That's the truth. On my soul and honour it's the truth. He said thechances were even. It was he suggested Mr. Hindlip, and Hindlip iscoming now. He's on the way. He may be here to-day. Oh, be sure, besure, be sure, it isn't all over. You said your life was broken. Itisn't. You said my life had been broken. It wasn't. It was only thewrench of a great change. Well, it's only the wrench of a great changein your life. You said I gained everything in the great change of mylife. I did; and the great change in your life won't be lost, it will begain, too. I know it; in my heart I know it. "

With sudden impulse she caught his hand in both of hers, and then withanother impulse, which she could not control, she caught his head to herbosom. For one instant her arms wrapped him round, and she murmuredsomething in a language he did not understand--the language of theRoumelian country. It was only one swift instant, and then with shockedexclamation she broke away from him, dropped into a chair, and buried herface in her hands. 

He blindly reached out his hand towards her as if to touch her. "Mother-girl, dear mother-girl--that's what you are, " he said huskily. "What agreat, kind heart you've got!"

She did not reply, but sat with face hidden in her hands, rockingbackwards and forwards. He understood; he tried to help her. There wasa great joy in his heart, but he dared not give it utterance. 

"Please tell me about your life--about that great change in it, " he saidat last in a low voice. "Perhaps it would help me. Anyhow, I'd like toknow, if you feel you can tell me. "

For a moment she was silent. Then she said to him with an anxious notein her voice: "What do you know about my life-about the 'great change, 'as you call it?"

He reached out over the coverlet, felt for a sock which he had beenlearning to knit and, slowly plying the needles, replied: "I only knowwhat Jethro Fawe told me, and he was a promiscuous liar. "

"I don't think he lied about me, " she answered quietly. "He told you Iwas a Gipsy; he told you that I was married to him. That was true. Iwas a Gipsy. I was married to him in the Romany way, when I was a childof three, and I never saw him again until here, the other day, on theSagalac. "

"You were married to him as much as I am, " he interjected scornfully. "That was a farce. It was only a promise to pay on the part of yourfather. There was nothing in that. Jethro Fawe could not claim onthat. "

"He has tried to do so, " she answered, "and if I were still a Gipsy hewould have the right to do so from his standpoint. "

"That sounds silly to me, " Ingolby remarked, his fingers moving now morequickly with the needles. "No, it isn't silly, " she said, her voicealmost as softly monotonous as his had been when he told her of his lifea little while before. It was as though she was looking into her ownmind and heart and speaking to herself. "It isn't silly, " she repeated. "I don't think you understand. Just because a race like the Gipsies haveno country and no home, so they must have things that bind them whichother people don't need in the same way. Being the vagrants of theearth, so they must have things that hold them tighter than any writtenlaws made by King or Parliament. Unless the Gipsies kept their lawssacred they couldn't hold together at all. They're iron and steel, theGipsy laws. They can't be stretched, and they can't be twisted. Theycan only be broken, and then there's no argument about it. When they arebroken, there's the penalty, and it has to be met. "

Ingolby stopped knitting for a moment. "You don't mean that a penaltycould touch you?" he asked incredulously. 

"Not for breaking a law, " she answered. "I'm not a Gipsy any more. I gave my word about that, and so did my father; and I'll keep it. "

"Please tell me about it, " he urged. "Tell me, so that I can understandeverything. "

There was a long pause in which Ingolby inspected carefully with hisfingers the work which he was doing, but at last Fleda's voice came tohim, as it seemed out of a great distance, while she began to tell of herfirst memories: of her life by the Danube and the Black Sea, and drewfor him a picture, so far as she could recall it, of her marriage withJethro, and of the years that followed. Now and again as she told ofsome sordid things, of the challenge of the law in different countries, of the coarse vagabondage of the Gipsy people in this place or in that, and some indignity put upon her father, or some humiliating incident, hervoice became low and pained. It seemed as if she meant that he shouldsee all she had been in that past, which still must be part of thepresent and have its place in the future, however far away all thatbelonged to it would be. She appeared to search her mind to find thatwhich would prejudice him against her. While speaking with slow scornof the life which she had lived as a Gipsy, yet she tried to make himunderstand, too, that, in the days when she belonged to it, it all seemednatural to her, and that its sordidness, its vagabondage did not producerepugnance in her mind when she was part of it. Unwittingly she over-coloured the picture, and he knew she did. 

In spite of herself, however, some aspects of the old life called forthpictures of happy Nature, of busy animal life of wood and glen and streamand footpath which was exquisite in its way. She was in spirit at onewith the multitudinous world of nature among which so many men and womenlived, without seeing or knowing. It was all undesignedly a part ofherself, and she was one of a population in a universal nation whosedevout citizen she was. Sometimes, in response to an interjection fromIngolby, deftly made, she told of some incident which revealed as great apoetic as dramatic instinct. As she talked, Ingolby in his imaginationpictured her as a girl of ten or twelve, in a dark-red dress, brown curlsfalling in profusion on her shoulders, with a clear, honest, beautifuleye, and a face that only spoke of a joy of living, in which the smallthings were the small things and the great things were the great: theperfect proportion of sane life in a sane world. 

Now and again, carried away by the history of things remembered, shevisualized scenes for him with the ardour of an artist and a lover ofcreated things. He realized how powerful a hold the old life still hadupon her. She understood it, too, for when at last she told of the greatevent in England which changed her life, and made her a deserter fromGipsy life; when she came to the giving of the pledge to a dying woman, and how she had kept that pledge, and how her father had kept it, sternly, faithfully, in spite of all it involved, she said to him:

"It may seem strange to you, living as I live now in one spot, witheverything to make life easy, that I should long sometimes for that oldlife. I hate it in my heart of hearts, yet there's something about itthat belongs to me, that's behind me, if that tells you anything. It'sas though there was some other self in me which reached far, far backinto centuries, that wills me to do this and wills me to do that. Itsounds mad to you of course, but there have been times when I have had awild longing to go back to it all, to what some Gorgio writers call thepariah world--the Ishmaelites. "

More than once Ingolby's heart throbbed heavily against his breast as hefelt the passion of her nature, its extraordinary truthfulness, making itclear to him by indirect phrases that even Jethro Fawe, whom shedespised, still had a hateful fascination for her. It was all atvariance to her present self, but it summoned her through the longavenues of ancestry, predisposition; through the secret communion ofthose who, being dead, yet speak. 

"It's a great story told in a great way, " he said, when she had finished. "It's the most honest thing I ever heard, but it's not the most truthfulthing I ever heard. I don't think we can tell the exact truth aboutourselves. We try to be honest; we are savagely in earnest about it, and so we exaggerate the bad things we do, and we often show distrust ofthe good things we do. That's not a fair picture. I believe you've toldme the truth as you see it and feel it, but I don't think it's the realtruth. In my mind I sometimes see an oriel window in the college where Ispent three years. I used to work and think for hours in that orielwindow, and in the fights I've been having lately I've looked back andthought I wanted it again; wanted to be there in the peace of it all, with the books, and the lectures, and the drone of history, and thedrudgery of examinations; but if I did go back to it, three days'd sickenme, and if you went back to the Gipsy life three days'd sicken you. "

"Yes, I know. Three hours would sicken me. But what might not happen inthose three hours! Can't you understand?"

Suddenly she got to her feet with a passionate exclamation, herclenched hands went to her temples in an agony of emotion. "Can't youunderstand?" she repeated. "It's the going back at all for three days, for three hours, for three minutes that counts. It might spoileverything; it might kill my life. "

His face flushed, crimsoned, then became pale; his hands ceased moving;the knitting lay still on his knee. "Maybe, but you aren't going backfor three minutes, any more than I'm going back to the oriel window forthree seconds, " he said. "We dreamers have a lot of agony in thinkingabout the things we're never going to do--just as much agony as inthinking about the things we've done. Every one of us dreamers ought tobe insulated. We ought to wear emotional lightning-rods to carry off thebrain-waves into the ground. 

"I've never heard such a wonderful story, " he added, after an instant, with an intense longing to hold out his arms to her, and a still moreintense will to do no such wrong. A blind man had no right or title tobe a slave-owner, for that was what marriage to him would be. A wifewould be a victim. He saw himself, felt himself being graduallydevitalized, with only the placid brain left, considering only theproblem of hourly comfort, and trying to neutralize the penalties ofblindness. She must not be sacrificed to that, for apart from all elseshe had greatness of a kind in her. He knew far better than he had saidof the storm of emotion in her, and he knew that she had not exaggeratedthe temptation which sang in her ears. Jethro Fawe--the thought of theman revolted him; and yet there was something about the fellow, a temperamental power, the glamour and garishness of Nature's gifts, prostituted though they were, finding expression in a strikingpersonality, in a body of athletic grace--a man-beauty. 

"Have you seen Jethro Fawe lately?" he asked. "Not since"--she wasgoing to say not since the morning her father had passed the sentence ofthe patrin upon him; but she paused in time. "Not since everythinghappened to you, " she added presently. 

"He knows the game is up, " Ingolby remarked with forced cheerfulness. "He won't be asking for any more. "

"It's time for your milk and brandy, " she said suddenly, emotionsubsiding and a look of purpose coming into her face. She poured out theliquid, and gave the glass into his hand. His fingers touched hers. 

"Your hands are cold, " she said to him. "Cold hands, warm heart, " hechattered. 

A curious, wilful, rebellious look came into her eyes. "I shouldn'thave thought it in your case, " she said, and with sudden resolve turnedtowards the door. "I'll send Madame Bulteel, " she added. "I'm going fora walk. "

She had betrayed herself so much, had shown so recklessly what she felt, and yet, yet why did he not--she did not know what she wanted him to do. It was all a great confusion. Vaguely she realized what had been workingin him, but yet the knowledge was dim indeed. She was a woman. In herheart of hearts she knew that he did care for her, and yet in her heartof hearts she denied that he cared. 

She was suddenly angry with herself, angry with him, the poor blind man, back from the Valley of the Shadow. She had not reached the door, however, when Madame Bulteel entered the room. 

"The doctor from New York has come, " she said, holding out a note fromDr. Rockwell. "He will be here in a couple of hours. "

Fleda turned back towards the bed. 

"Good luck!" she said. "You'll see, it will be all right. "

"Certainly I'll see if it's all right, " he said cheerfully. "Am I tidy?Have I used Pears' soap?" He would have his joke at his own funeral ifpossible. 

"There are two hours to get you fit to be seen, " she rejoined withraillery, infected by his cheerfulness in spite of herself. "MadameBulteel is very brave. Nothing is too hard for her!"

An instant later she was gone, with her heart telling her to go back tohim, not to leave him, but yet with a longing stronger still driving herto the open world, to which she could breathe her trouble in great gasps, as she sped onward through the woods and by the river. To love a blindman was sheer madness, but in her was a superstitious belief that hewould see again. It prevailed against the doubts and terrors. It madeher resent his own sense of fatality, his own belief that he would be indarkness all his days. 

In the room where he awaited the verdict of the expert, he kept saying tohimself:

"She would have made everything else look cheap--if it could have been. "

CHAPTER XXI

THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

The last rays of the setting sun touched the gorgeous Autumn woods witha loving, bright glow, and the day stole pensively away into a purple bedbeyond the sight of the eyes. From a lonely spot by the river, Fledawatched the westering gleam until it vanished, her soul alive to themelancholy beauty of it all. Not a human being seemed to be within therestricted circle of her vision. There were only to be seen the deepwoods, in myriad tints of bronze and red and saffron, and the swift-flowing river. Overhead was the Northern sky, so clear, so thrilling, and the stars were beginning to sparkle in the incredibly swift twilightwhich links daytime and nighttime in that Upper Land. Lonely anddelicately sad it all looked, but there was no feeling of lonelinessamong those who lived the life of the Sagalac. Many a man has stood on awide plain of snow, white to the uttermost horizon, or in the yellow-brown grass of the Summer prairie, empty of all human life so far as eyecould see, and yet has felt no solitude. It is as though the air itselfis inhabited by a throng of happy comrades whispering in the communion ofthe invisible world. 

As a child Fleda had often gazed upon just such scenes, lonely andluminous, but she was only conscious then of a vague and pleasant awe, a kindly confusion, which, like the din of innumerable bees, lulledwonder to sleep. Even as a child, however, something of what it meanthad pierced her awe and wonder. Once as she crossed a broken, baremountain of Roumania she had seen a wild ass perched upon a high summitgazing, as it were, over the wide valley, where beneath, among the rocks, other wild asses wandered. There was something so statue-like in thisimmovable wild creature that Fleda had watched it till it was hid fromher view by a jutting rock. But the thing which made a lastingimpression, drawing her nearer to nature-life than all that had chancedsince she was born, was the fact that on returning, hours after, the wildass was still standing upon the summit of the hill, still gazing acrossthe valley. Or was it gazing across the valley? Was there some othervision commanding its sight?

So a young wife not yet a mother loses herself for hours together in avista of unexplored experience. Fleda had passed on, out of sight of thewild ass on the hills, but for ever after the memory of it remained withher and the picture of it sprang to her eye innumerable times. Thehypnotized wild thing--hypnotized by its own vague instincts, or bysomething outside itself-became to her as the Sphinx to the Egyptian, theeverlasting question of existence. 

Now, as she watched the day fleeing, and night with swift stealthinesscoming on, that unforgettable picture of the Roumanian hills came to heragain. The instinct of those far-off days which had been little removedfrom the finest animal intelligence had now developed into thought. Brain and soul strove to grasp what it all meant, and what the revelationwas between Nature and herself. Nature was so vast; she was soinsignificant; changes in its motionless inorganic life wereimperceptible save through the telescopes of years; but she, like thewind, the water, and the clouds, was variable, inconstant. Was there anyreal relation between the vast, imperturbable earth, its seas, itsforests, its mountains and its plains, its life of tree and plant andflower and the men and women dotted on its surface? Did they belong toeach other, or were mankind only, as it were, vermin infesting thedesirable world? Did they belong to each other? It meant so much ifthey did belong, and she loved to think they did. Many a time she kissedthe smooth bole of a maple or whispered to it; or laid her cheek againsta mossy rock and murmured a greeting in the spirit of a companionship asold as the making of the world. 

On the evening of this day of her destiny--carrying the story of her ownfate within its twenty-four hours--she was in a mood of detachment fromlife's routine. As at a great opera, a sensitive spirit loses itself invisions alien to the music and yet born of it, so she, lost in thisprimeval scene before her, saw visions of things to be. 

If Ingolby's sight came back! In her abstraction she saw him with sightrestored and by her side, and even in that joy her mind felt a hoveringsense of invasion, no definite, visible thing, but a presence which madeshadow. Suddenly oppressed by it, she turned back into the woods fromthe river-bank to make for home. She had explored nearly every portionof this river-country for miles up and down, but on this evening, lost inher dreams, she had wandered into less familiar regions. There was nochance of her being lost, so long as she kept near to the river, andindeed by instinct and not by thought or calculation she made her wayabout at all times. Turned homeward, she walked for about a quarter of amile, retreading the path by which she had come. It was growing darker, and, being in unfamiliar surroundings, she hurried on, though she knewwell what course to take. Following the bank of the river she would haveincreased her walk greatly, as the stream made a curve at a point aboveManitou, and then came back again to its original course; so she cutacross the promontory, taking the most direct line homeward. 

Presently, however, she became conscious of other people in the woodbesides herself. She saw no one, but she heard breaking twigs, the stirof leaves, the flutter of a partridge which told of human presence. Theunderbrush was considerable, darkness was coming on, and she had a senseof being surrounded. It agitated her, but she pulled herself together, stood still and admonished herself. She called herself a fool; she askedherself if she was going to be a coward. She laughed out loud at her ownapprehension; but a chill stole into her blood when she heard near by--there was no doubt about it now--mockery of her own laughter. Thensuddenly, before she could organize her senses, a score of men seemed torise up from the ground around her, to burst out from the bushes, to dropfrom the trees, and to storm upon her. She had only time to realize thatthey were Romanys, before scarfs were thrown around her head, boundaround her body, and, unconscious, she was carried away into the deepwoods. 

When she regained consciousness Fleda found herself in a tent, set in akind of prairie amphitheatre valanced by shrubs and trees. Bright firesburned here and there, and dark-featured men squatted upon the ground, cared for their horses, or busied themselves near two large caravans, atthe doors or on the steps of which now and again appeared a woman. 

She had waked without moving, had observed the scene without drawing theattention of a man--a sentry--who sat beside the tent-door. The tent wasempty save for herself. There was little in it besides the camp-bedagainst the tent wall, upon which she lay, and the cushions supportingher head. She had waked carefully, as it were: as though some inwardmonitor had warned her of impending danger. She realized that she hadbeen kidnapped by Romanys, and that the hand behind the business was thatof Jethro Fawe. The adventurous and reckless Fawe family had its manyadherents in the Romany world, and Jethro was its head, the hereditaryclaimant for its leadership. 

Notwithstanding the Ry of Rys' prohibition, there had drawn nearer andever nearer to him, from the Romany world he had abandoned, many of hispeople, never, however, actually coming within his vision till theappearance of Jethro Fawe. Here and there on the prairie, to a pointjust beyond Gabriel Druse's horizon, they had come from all parts of theworld; and Jethro, reckless and defiant under the Sentence, and knowingthat the chances against his life were a million to one, had determinedon one bold stroke which, if it failed, would make his fate no worse, and, if it succeeded, would give him his wife and, maybe, headship overall the Romany world. For weeks he had planned, watched and waited, filling the woods with his adherents, secretly following Fleda day byday, until, at last, the place, the opportunity, seemed perfect; and hereshe lay in a Romany tan once more, with the flickering fires outside inthe night, and the sentry at her doorway. This watchman was not JethroFawe, but she knew well that Jethro was not far off. 

Through the open door of the tent, for some minutes, her eyes studied thesegment of the circle within her vision, and she realized that here wasan organized attempt to force her back into the Romany world. If sherepudiated the Gorgio life and acknowledged herself a Romany once again, she knew her safety would be secured; but in truth she had no fear forher life, for no one would dare to defy the Ry of Rys so far as to killhis daughter. But she was in danger of another kind--in deep andterrible danger; and she knew it well. As the thought of it tookpossession of her, her heart seemed almost to burst. Not fear, but angerand emotion possessed her. All the Romany in her stormed back again fromthe past. It sent her to her feet with a scarcely smothered cry. Shewas not quicker, however, than was the figure at the tent door, which, with a half-dozen others, sprang up as she appeared. A hand was raised, and, as if by magic, groups of Gipsies, some sitting, some standing, somewith the Gipsy fiddle, one or two with flutes, began a Romany chant in ahigh, victorious key, and women threw upon the fire powders from whichflamed up many coloured lights. 

In a moment the camp was transformed. From the woods around cameswarthy-faced men, with great gold rings in their ears and bright scarfsaround their necks or waists, some of them handsome, dirty and insolent;others ugly, watchful, and quiet in manner and face; others still mostfriendly and kind in face and manner. All showed instant respect forFleda. They raised their hands in a gesture of salutation as a Zuluchief thrusts up a long arm and shouts "Inkoos!" to one whom he honours. Some, however, made the sweeping Oriental gesture of the right hand, palmupward, and almost touching the ground--a sign of obedience and infiniterespect. It had all been well arranged. Skilfully managed as it was, however, there was something in it deeper than theatrical display ordramatic purpose. 

It was clear that many of them were deeply moved at being in the presenceof the daughter of the Ry of Rys, who had for so long exiled himself. Racial, family, clan feeling spoke in voice and gesture, in look andattitude; but yet there were small groups of younger men whosesalutations were perfunctory, not to say mocking. These were they whoresented deeply Fleda's defection, and truthfully felt that she hadpassed out of their circle for ever; that she despised them, and lookeddown on them from another sphere. They were all about the age of JethroFawe, but were of a less civilized type, and had semi-barbarism writtenall over them. Unlike Jethro they had never known the world of cities. They repudiated Fleda, because their ambition could not reach to her. They recognized the touch of fashion and of form, of a worldly education, of a convention which lifted her away from the tan and the caravan, fromthe everlasting itinerary. They had not had Jethro's experiences infashionable hotels of Europe, at midnight parties, at gay suppers, atgarish dances, where Gorgio ladies answered the amorous looks of theambitious Romany with the fiddle at his chin. Because these youngRomanys knew they dare not aspire, they were resentful; but Jethro, the head of the rival family and the son of the dead claimant to theheadship, had not such compulsory modesty. He had ranged far and wide, and his expectations were extensive. He was nowhere to be seen in thegroups which sang and gestured in the light of the many coloured fires, though once or twice Fleda's quickened ear detected his voice, exulting, in the chorus of song. 

Presently, as she stood watching, listening, and strangely moved in spiteof herself by the sudden dramatic turn which things had taken, a seat wasbrought to her. It was a handsome stool, looted perhaps from somechateau in the Old World, and over it was thrown a dark-red cloth whichgave a semblance of dignity to the seat of authority, which it was meantto be. 

Fleda did not refuse the honour. She had choked back the indignant wordswhich had rushed to her lips as she left the tent where she had beenlying. Prudence had bade her await developments. She could not yet makeup her mind what to do. It was clear that a bold and deep purpose laybehind it all, and she could not tell how far-reaching it was, nor whatit represented of rebellion against her father's authority. That it didrepresent rebellion she had no doubt. She was well enough aware of theclaims of Jethro's dead father to the leadership, abandoned for threethousand pounds and marriage with herself; and she was also aware thatwhile her father's mysterious isolation might possibly have developed areverence for him, yet active pressure and calumny might well have doneits work. Also, if the marriage was repudiated, Jethro would bejustified in resuming the family claim to the leadership. 

She seated herself upon the scarlet seat with a gesture of thanks, whilethe salutations and greetings increased; then she awaited events, thrilled by the weird and pleasant music, with its touches of Easternfantasy. In spite of herself she was moved, as Romanys, men and women, ran forward in excitement with arms raised towards her as though theymeant to strike her, then suddenly stopped short, made obeisance, calleda greeting, and ran backwards to their places. 

Presently a group of men began a ceremony or ritual, before which thespectators now and again covered their eyes, or bent their heads low, or turned their backs, and raised their hands in a sort of ascription. As the ceremony neared its end, with its strange genuflections, a womandressed in white was brought forward, her hands bound behind her, herhair falling over her shoulders, and after a moment of apparentdenunciation on the part of the head of the ceremony, she was suddenlythrown to the ground, and the pretence of drawing a knife across herthroat was made. As Fleda watched it she shuddered, but presently bracedherself, because she knew that this ritual was meant to show what the endmust be of those who, like herself, proved traitor to the traditions ofrace. 

It was at this point, when fifty knives flashed in the air, with vengefulexclamations, that Jethro Fawe appeared in the midst of the crowd. Hewas dressed in the well-known clothes which he had worn since the day hefirst declared himself at Gabriel Druse's home, and, compared with hisfriends around him, he showed to advantage. There was command in hisbearing, and experience of life had given him primitive distinction. 

For a moment he stood looking at Fleda in undisguised admiration, forshe made a remarkable picture. Animal beauty was hers, too. There was adelicate, athletic charm in her body and bearing; but it added to, ratherthan took away from, the authority of her presence, so differing fromJethro. She had never compared herself with others, and her passionateintelligence would have rebelled against the supremacy of the body. Shehad no physical vanity, but she had some mental vanity, and it placedmind so far above matter that her beauty played no part in hercalculations. At sight of him, Fleda's blood quickened, but inindignation and in no other sense. As he came towards her, however, despising his vanity as she did, she felt how much he was above all thoseby whom he was surrounded. She realized his talent, and it almost madeher forget his cunning and his loathsomeness. As he came near to her hemade a slight gesture to someone in the crowd, and a chorus ofsalutations rose. 

Composed and still she waited for him to come quite close to her, and thelook in her face was like that of one who was scarcely conscious of whatwas passing around her, whose eyes saw distant things of infinite moment. 

A few feet away from her he spoke. 

"Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you are among your own people once again, "he said. "From everywhere in the world they have come to show their lovefor you. You would not have come to them of your own free will, becausea madness 'got hold of you, and so they came to you. You cut yourselfoff from them and told yourself you had become a Gorgio. But that wasonly your madness; and madness can be cured. We are the Fawes, theancient Fawes, who ruled the Romany people before the Druses came topower. We are of the ancient blood, yet we are faithful to the Drusethat rules over us. His word prevails, although his daughter is mad. Daughter of the Ry of Rys, you have seen us once again. We have sung toyou; we have spoken to you; we have told you what is in our hearts; wehave shown you how good is the end of those who are faithful, and howterrible is the end of the traitor. Do not forget it. Speak to us. "

Fleda had a fierce desire to spring to her feet and declare to them allthat the sentence of the patrin had been passed upon Jethro Fawe, but shelaid a hand upon herself. She knew they were unaware that the Sentencehad been passed, else they would not have been with Jethro. In that casenone would give him food or shelter or the hand of friendship; none dareshow him any kindness; and it was the law that any one against whom hecommitted an offence, however small, might take his life. The Sentencehad been like a cloud upon her mind ever since her father had passed it;she could not endure the thought of it. She could not bring herself tospeak of it--to denounce him. Sooner or later the Sentence would reachevery Romany everywhere, and Jethro would pass into the darkness ofoblivion, not in his own time nor in the time of Fate. The man wasabhorrent to her, yet his claim was there. Mad and bad as it was, hemade his claim of her upon ancient rights, and she was still enough aRomany to see his point of view. 

Getting to her feet slowly, she ignored Jethro, looked into the face ofthe crowd, and said:

"I am the daughter of the Ry of Rys still, though I am a Romany nolonger. I made a pledge to be no more a Romany and I will keep it; yetyou and all Romany people are dear to me because through long generationsthe Druses have been of you. You have brought me here against my will. Do you think the Ry of Rys will forgive that? In your words you havebeen kind to me, but yet you have threatened me. Do you think that aDruse has any fear? Did a Druse ever turn his cheek to be smitten? Youknow what the Druses are. I am a Druse still. I will not talk longer, I have nothing to say to you all except that you must take me back to myfather, and I will see that he forgives you. Some of you have done thisout of love; some of you have done it out of hate; yet set me free againupon the path to my home, and I shall forget it, and the Ry of Rys willforget it. "

At that instant there suddenly came forward from the doorway of a tenton the outskirts of the crowd a stalwart woman, with a strong face anda self-reliant manner. She was still young, but her slightly pockmarkedcountenance showed the wear and tear of sorrow of some kind. She had, indeed, lost her husband and her father in the Montenegrin wars. Hastening forward to Fleda she reached out a hand. 

"Come with me, " she said; "come and sleep in my tent to-night. To-morrowyou shall go back to the Ry of Rys, perhaps. Come with me. "

There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd, which was stilled by a motionof Jethro Fawe's hand, and a moment afterwards Fleda gave her hand to thewoman. 

"I will go with you, " Fleda said. Then she turned to Jethro: "I wish tospeak to you alone, Jethro Fawe, " she added. 

He laughed triumphantly. "The wife of Jethro Fawe wishes to speak withhim, " he bombastically cried aloud to the assembled people, and heprepared to follow Fleda. 

As Fleda entered the woman's tent a black-eyed girl, with tousled hairand a bold, sensual face, ran up to Jethro, and in an undertone of evilsuggestion said to him:

"To-night is yours, Jethro. You can make tomorrow sure. "

CHAPTER XXII

THE SECRET MAN

"You are wasting your time. "

Fleda said the words with a quiet determination, and yet in the tone wasa slight over-emphasis which was like a call upon reserve forces withinherself. 

"Time is nothing to me, " was the complete reply, clothed in a tone ofsoft irony. "I'm young enough to waste it. I've plenty of it in myknapsack. "

"Have you forgotten the Sentence of the Patrin?" Fleda asked thequestion in a voice which showed a sudden access of determination. 

"He will have to wipe it out after to-morrow, " replied the other with agleam of sulky meaning and furtive purpose in his eyes. 

"If you mean that I will change my mind to-morrow, and be your wife, andreturn to the Gipsy life, it is the thought of a fool. I asked you tocome here to speak with me because I was sure I could make you see thingsas they truly are. I wanted to explain why I did not tell the Romanysoutside there that the Sentence had been passed on you. I did not tellthem because I can't forget that your people and my people have been sibfor hundreds of years; that you and I were children together; that wewere sealed to one another when neither of us could have any say aboutit. If I had remained a Gipsy, who can tell--my mind might havebecome like yours! I think there must be something rash and bad in mesomewhere, because I tell you frankly now that a chord in my heart rangwhen you made your wild speeches to me there in the hut in the Woodmonths ago, even when I hated you, knowing you for what you are. "

"That was because there was another man, " interjected Jethro. 

She inclined her head. "Yes, it was partly because of another man, "she replied. "It is a man who suffers because of you. When he was aloneamong his foes, a hundred to one, you betrayed him. That itself wouldhave made me despise you to the end of my life, even if the man had beennothing at all to me. 

"It was a low, cowardly thing to do. You did it; and if you were mybrother, I would hate you for it; if you were my father, I should leaveyour house; if you were my husband, I should kill you. I asked you tospeak with me now because I thought that if you would go away--far away--promising never to cross my father's path, or my path, again, I could gethim to withdraw the Sentence. You have kidnapped me. Where do you thinkyou are? In Mesopotamia? You can't break the law of this country andescape as you would there. They don't take count of Romany custom here. Not only you, but every one of the Fawes here will be punished if the lawreaches for your throat. I want you to escape, and I tell you to go now. Go back to Europe. I advise you this for your own sake--because you area Fawe and of the clan. "

The blood mounted to Jethro's forehead, and he made an angry gesture. "And leave you here for him! 'Mi Duvel!' I can only die once, and Iwould rather die near you than far away, " he exclaimed. 

His eyes had a sardonic look, there was a savage edge to his tongue, yethis face was flushed with devouring emotion and he was quivering withhope. That which he called love was flooding the field of his feelings, and the mad thing--the toxic impulse which is deep in the brain ofEastern races bled into his brain now. He was reckless, rebelliousagainst fate, insanely wilful, and what she had said concerning Ingolbyhad roused in him the soul of Cain. 

She realized it, and she was apprehensive of some desperate act; yet shehad no physical fear of him. Something seemed to tell her that, nomatter what happened, Ingolby would not wait for her in vain, and thathe would yet see her enter to him again with the love-light in her eyes. 

"But listen to me, " Jethro said, with an unnatural shining in his eyes, his voice broken in its passion. "You think you can come it over me withyour Gorgio talk and the clever things you've learned in the Gorgioworld. You try to look down on me. I'm as well born or as ill born asyou. The only difference between us is the way you dress, the way youlive and use your tongue. All that belongs to the life of the cities. Anyone can learn it. Anyone well born like you and me, with a littlepractice, can talk like Gorgio dukes and earls. I've been among them andI know. I've had my friends among them, too. I've got the hang of itall. It's no good to me, and I don't want it. It's all part of a setpiece. There's no independence in that life; you live by rule. Diable!I know. I've been in palaces; I've played my fiddle to the women in highplaces who can't blush. It's no good; it brings nothing in the end. It's all hollow. Look at our people there. " He swept a hand to the tentdoor. 

"They're tanned and rough, as all out-door things are rough, but they'vegot their share of happiness, and every day has its pleasures. Listen tothem!" he cried with a gesture of exultation. "Listen to that!"

The colour slowly left Fleda's face. Outside in the light of the dyingfires, under the glittering stars, in the shade of the trees, groups ofRomanys were singing the Romany wedding melody, called "The Song of theSealing. " It was not like the ringing of wedding bells alone, it sealedblessing upon the man and the woman. It was a poem in praise of marriagepassion; it was a paean proclaiming the accomplishment of life. Crude, primitive, it thrilled with Eastern feeling; a weird charm was showeredfrom its notes. 

"Listen!" exclaimed Jethro again, a fire burning in his face. "That'sfor you and me. To them you are my wife, and I am your man. 'Mi Duvel'--it shall be so! I know women. For an hour you will hate me; for a dayyou will resent me, and then you will begin to love me. You will fightme, but I will conquer. I know you--I know you--all you women. But no, it will not be I that will conquer. It's my love that will do it. It'sa den of tigers. When it breaks loose it will have its way. Here it is. Can't you see it in my face? Can't you hear it in my voice? Don't youhear my heart beating? Every throb says, 'Fleda--Fleda--Fleda, come tome. ' I have loved you since you were three. I want you now. We can behappy. Every night we will make a new home. The world will be ours; thebest that is in it will come to us. We will tap the trees of happiness--they're hid from the Gorgio world. You and I will know where to findthem. Every land shall be ours; every gift of paradise within our reach--riches, power, children. Come back to your own people; be a truedaughter of the Ry of Rys; live with your Romany chal. You will never beat home anywhere else. It's in your bones; it's in your blood; it'sdeeper than all. Here, now, come to me--my wife. "

He flung the flap of the tent door across the opening, shutting out thecamp-fires and the people. "Here--now--come. Be mine while they sing. "

For one swift moment the great passion and eloquence of the man liftedher off her feet; for one instant the Romany in her triumphed, and athrill of passion passed through her, storming her senses, like a mistshutting out all the rest of the world. This Romany was right; there wasin her the wild thing--the everlasting strain of race and years breakingdown all the defences which civilized life had built up within her. Justfor one instant so--and then there flashed before her a face with twoblind eyes. 

Like a stream of ether playing upon warm flesh, making it icy cold, sosomething of the ineradicable good in her swept like a frozen spray uponthe elements of emotion, and with both hands she made a gesture ofrepulsion. 

His eyes with their reddish glow burned nearer and nearer to her. Hebulked over her, driving her back against the couch by the tent wall. For an instant like that--and then, with clenched hand, she struck him inthe face. 

Swift as had been the change in her, so a change like a cyclone sweptover him. The hysterical passion which had possessed him suddenlypassed, and a dark, sullen determination swept into his eyes and over hisface. His lips parted in a savage smile. 

"Hell, so that's what you've learned in the Gorgio world, is it?" heasked malevolently. "Then I'll teach you what they do in the Romanyworld; and to-morrow you can put the two together and see what they looklike. "

With a Romany expletive, he flung back the curtain of the tent and passedout into the night. 

For a long time Fleda sat stunned and overcome by the side of thecouch, her brain tortured by a thousand thoughts. She knew there was noimmediate escape from the encampment. She could only rely upon the hueand cry which would be raised and the certain hunt which would be madefor her. But what might not happen before any rescue came? The ancientgrudge of the Fawes against the Druses had gained power and activity bythe self-imposed exile of Gabriel Druse; and Jethro had worked upon it. The veiled threats which Jethro had made she did not despise. He was abarbarian. He would kill what he loved; he would have his way with whathe loved, whether or not it was the way of law or custom or right. Outside, the wedding song still made musical the night. Women's voices, shrill, and with falsetto notes, made the trees ring with it; low, bassvoices gave it a kind of solemnity. The view which the encampment tookof her captivity was clear. Where was the woman that brought her to thetent--whose tent it was? She seemed kind. Though her face had a hardlook, surely she meant to be friendly. Or did she only mean to betrayher; to give her a fancied security, and leave her to Jethro--and thenight? She looked round for some weapon. There was nothing availablesave two brass candlesticks. Though the door of the tent was closed, sheknew that there were watchers outside; that any break for liberty wouldonly mean defeat, and yet she was determined to save herself. 

As she tried to take the measure of the situation and plan what she woulddo, the noise of the music suddenly ceased, and she heard a voice, thoughlow in tone, give some sort of command. Then there was a cry, and whatseemed the chaotic noise of a struggle followed; then a voice a littlelouder speaking, a voice of someone she remembered, though she could notplace it. Something vital was happening outside, something punctuated bysharp, angry exclamations; afterwards a voice speaking soothingly, firmly, prevailed; and then there was silence. As she listened there wasa footstep at the door of the tent, a voice called to her softly, and ahand drew aside the tent curtain. The woman who had brought her to thisplace entered. 

"You are all safe now, " she said, reaching out both hands to Fleda. "Bylong and by last, but it was a close shave! He meant to make you hiswife to-night, whether you would or no. I'm a Fawe, but I'd have none ofthat. I was on my way to your father's house when I met someone--someonethat you know. He carries your father's voice in his mouth. "

She stepped to the tent door and beckoned; and out of the darkness, onlyfaintly lightened by the dying fires, there entered one whom Fleda hadseen not more than fifty times in her life, and never but twice since shehad ceased to be a Romany. It was her father's secret agent, Rhodo, theRoumelian, now grizzled and gaunt, but with the same vitality which hadbeen his in the days when she was a little child. 

Here and there in the world went Rhodo, the voice of the Ry of Rys to dohis bidding, to say his say. No minister of a Czar was ever more dreadedor loved. His words were ever few, but his deeds had been many. Now, ashe looked at Fleda, his old eyes gleamed, and he showed a double row ofteeth, not one of which was imperfect, though he was seventy years ofage. 

"Would you like to come?" he asked. "Would you like to come home to theRy?"

With a cry she flung herself upon him. "Rhodo! Rhodo!" she exclaimed, and now the tears broke forth, and her body shook with sobs. 

A few moments later he said to her: "It's fifteen years since you kissedme last. I thought you were ashamed of old Rhodo. "

She did not answer, but looked at him with eyes streaming, drawing backfrom him. Her embrace was astonishing even to herself, for as a childRhodo had been a figure of awe to her, and the feeling had deepened asthe years had gone on, knowing as she did his work throughout the worldfor the Ry of Rys. In his face was secrecy, knowledge, and some tragicunderthing which gave him, apart from his office, a singular lonelinessof figure and manner. He was so closely knit in form; there was suchconcentration in face, bearing and gesture, that the isolation of hisposition was greatly deepened. 

"No, you never kissed me after you were old enough to like or dislike, "he said with mournful and ironical reflection. 

There crept into his face a kind of yearning such as one might feel whobeheld afar off a promised land, and yet was denied its joys. Rhodo waswifeless, childless, and had been so for forty years. He had had nointimates among the Romany people. His life he lived alone. That thedaughter of the Ry of Rys should kiss him was a thing of which he woulddream when deeds were done and over and the shadows threatened. 

"I will kiss you again in another fifteen years, " she said half-smilingthrough her tears. "But tell me--tell me what has happened. "

"Jethro Fawe has gone, " he answered with a sweeping outward gesture. 

"Where has he gone?" she asked, apprehension seizing her. 

"A journey into the night, " responded the old man with scorn and wrath inhis tone, and his lips were set. 

"Is he going far?" she asked. 

"The road you might think long would be short to him, " he answered. 

Her hands became cold; her heart seemed to stop beating. 

"What road is that?" she asked. She knew, but she must ask. 

"Everybody knows it; everybody goes it some time or another, " he answereddarkly. 

"What was it you said to all of them outside?"--she made a gesture towardsthe doorway. "There were angry cries, and I heard Jethro Fawe's voice. "

"Yes, he was blaspheming, " remarked the old man grimly. 

"Tell me what it was you said, and tell me what has happened, " shepersisted. 

The old man hesitated a moment, then said grimly: "I told them they mustgo one way and Jethro Fawe another. I told them the Ry of Rys had saidno patrins should mark the road Jethro Fawe's feet walked. I had heardof this gathering here, and I was on my way to bid them begone, for infollowing the Ry they have broken his command. As I came, I met thewoman of this tent who has been your friend. She is a good woman; shehas suffered. Her people are gone, but she has a heart for others. Imet her. She told me of what that rogue and devil had done and would do. He is the head of the Fawes, but the Ry of Rys is the head of all theRomanys of the world. He has spoken the Word against Jethro, and theWord shall prevail. The Word of the Ry when it is given cannot bewithdrawn. It is like the rock on which the hill rests. "

"They did not go with him?" she asked. 

"It is not the custom, " he answered sardonically. "That is a path aRomany walks alone. "

Her face was white. "But he has not come to the end of the path--hashe?" she asked tremulously. "Who can tell? This day, or twenty yearsfrom now, or to-morrow, or next moon, he will come to the end of thepath. No one knows, he least of all. He will not see the end, becausethe road is dark. I don't think it will be soon, " he added, because hesaw how haggard her face had grown. "No, I don't think it will be soon. He is a Fawe, at the head of all the Fawes; so perhaps there will be timefor him to think, and no doubt it will not be soon. "

"Perhaps it will not be at all. My father spoke, but he can withdraw hisword, " she urged. 

Suddenly the old Gipsy's face hardened. A look of dark resolve and ironforce came into it. 

"The Ry will not withdraw. He has spoken, and it must be. If he spokelightly he is not fit to rule. Unless the word of the Ry of Rys is goodagainst breaking, then the Romanys are no more than scattered leaves atthe will of the wind. It is the word of the Ry that holds our folktogether. It shall not bless, and it shall not curse in vain. "

Pitying the girl's face, however, and realizing that the Gorgio life hadgiven her a new view of things; angry with her because it was so, butloving her for herself, he added:

"But the night road may be long, though it is lonely, and if it should bethat the Ry should pass before the end of the road comes to Jethro, thenis Jethro freed, since the Word is gone which binds his feet for thepitfall. "

"He must not die, " she insisted. 

"Then the Ry of Rys must not live, " he rejoined sternly. With a kindlygesture, however, he stretched out his hand. "Come, we shall reach thehouse of the Ry before the morning, " he added. "He is not returned fromhis journey, and so will not be troubled by having missed you. Therewill be an hour for beauty-sleep before the sun rises, " he continued withthe same wide smile with which he greeted her first. Then he lifted upthe curtain and passed out into the night. 

Following him, Fleda saw that the Romanys had broken camp, and only asmall handful remained, among them the woman who had befriended her. Fleda went up to her:

"I will never forget you, " she said. "Will you wear this for me?" sheadded, and she took from her throat a brooch which she had worn eversince her first days in England, after her great illness there. Thewoman accepted the brooch. "Lady love, " she said, "you've lost yoursleep to-night, but that's a loss you can make good. If there's anight's sleep owing you, you can collect the debt some time. No, anight's sleep lost in a tent is nothing, if you're the only one in thetent. But if you're not alone, and you lose a night's sleep, someoneelse may pick it up, and you might never get it again!"

A flush slowly stole over Fleda's face, and a look of horror came intoher eyes. She read the parable aright. 

"Will you let me kiss you?" she said to the woman, and now it was thewoman's turn to flush. 

"You are the daughter of the Ry of Rys, " she said almost shyly, yetproudly. 

"I'm a girl with a debt to pay and can never pay it, " Fleda answered, putting her arms impulsively around the woman's neck and kissing her. Then she took the brooch from the woman's hand, and pinned it at herthroat. 

"Think of Fleda of the Druses sometimes, " she said, and she laid a handupon the woman's breast. "Lady love--lady love, " said the blunt womanwith the pockmarked face, "you've had the worst fright to-night thatyou'll ever have. " She caught Fleda's hand and peered into it. "Yes, it's happiness for you now, and on and on, " she added exultingly, andwith the fortune-teller's air. "You've passed the danger place, andthere'll be wealth and a man who's been in danger, too; and there'schildren, beautiful children--I see them. "

In confusion, Fleda snatched her hand away. "Good-bye, you fool-woman, "she said impatiently, yet gently, too. "You talk such sense and suchnonsense. Good-bye, " she added brusquely, but yet she smiled at thewoman as she turned away. 

A moment later she was on her way back to Manitou, but she did not get toher father's house before the break of day; and in the doorway she metMadame Bulteel, whose pale, drawn face proclaimed a sleepless night. 

"Tell me what has happened? Tell me what has happened?" she asked indistress. 

Fleda took both her hands. "Before I answer, tell me what has happenedhere, " she said breathlessly. "What news?"

Madame Bulteel's face lighted. "Good news, " she exclaimed eagerly. 

"He will see--he will see again?" Fleda asked in great agitation. 

"The Montreal doctor said that the chances were even, " answered MadameBulteel. "This man from the States says it is a sure thing. "

With a murmur Fleda sank into a chair, and a faintness came over her. 

"That's not like a Romany, " remarked old Rhodo. "No, it's certainly notlike a Romany, " remarked Madame Bulteel meaningly. 

CHAPTER XXIII

THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS

Grey days in the prairie country do not come very often, but they arevery depressing when they arrive. The landscape is not of the lusciouskind; it has no close correspondence with a picture by Corot orConstable; sunlight is needed to give it the touch of the habitable andthe homelike. It was, therefore, unfortunate for the spirits of theLebanon people that the meeting summoned by local agitators to discusswith asperity affairs on both sides of the Sagalac should, while startingwith fitful sunlight in the early morning, have developed to a bleakgreyness by three o'clock in the afternoon, the time set for the meeting. 

Another strike was imminent in the factories at Manitou and in therailway-shops at Lebanon, due to the stupidity of the policy of Ingolby'ssuccessor as to the railways and other financial and manufacturinginterests. If he had planned a campaign of maladroitness he could nothave more happily fulfilled his object. It was not a good time forreducing wages, or for quarrelling with the Town Councils of Manitou andLebanon concerning assessments and other matters. November and Mayalways found Manitou, as though to say, "upset. " In the former month, men were pouring through the place on their way to the shanties for theirWinter's work, and generally celebrating their coming internment by"irrigation"; in the latter month, they were returning from theirWinter's imprisonment, thirsty for excitement, and with memories ofWinter quarrels inciting them to "have it out of someone. "

And it was in October, when the shantyman was passing through on his wayto the woods--a natural revolutionary, loving trouble as a coyote loveshis hole--that labour discontent was practically whipped into action, andthe Councils of the two towns were stung into bitterness against the newprovocative railway policy. Things looked dark enough. The troublebetween the two towns and the change of control and policy of therailways, due to Ingolby's downfall, had greatly shaken land and buildingvalues in Lebanon, and a black eye, as it were, had been given to thewhole district for the moment. 

So serious had the situation been regarded that the Mayor of Lebanon, with Halliday the lawyer and another notable citizen, all friends ofIngolby, had "gone East"--as a journey to Montreal, Toronto, or Quebecwas generally called--to confer with and make appeal to the directorateof the great railways. They went with some elation and hope, for theyhad arguments of an unexpected kind in their possession, carefully hiddenfrom the rest of the population. They had returned only the day beforethe meeting which was to be held in the square in front of the Town Hall, to find that a platform had been built at the very steps of the Town Hallwith the assent of the Chief Constable, now recovered from illness andreturned to duty. To the Deputy Mayor and the Council, the ChiefConstable, on the advice of Gabriel Druse, had said that it was farbetter to have the meeting in front of the Town Hall where he could, on the instant, summon special constables from within if necessary, whilethe influence of a well-built platform and the orderly arrangement of aregular meeting were better than a mob oration from the tops of ash-barrels. 

The signs were ominous. In a day of sunshine the rebellious anddiscontented spirit does not thrive; on a wet day it is apt to takeshelter; on a bleak, grey day men are prone to huddle together in theiranger with consequent stimulation of their passions. 

It was a grey enough day at Lebanon, and dark-faced visitors from Manitoufelt the need of Winter clothing as they shiveringly crossed the Sagalacby Ingolby's bridge. The air was raw and searching; Nature was sulky. In the sharp wind the trees shook themselves angrily free of leaves. Thetaverns were greatly frequented, which was not good for Manitou andLebanon. Up to the time of the meeting, however, the expected strike hadnot occurred. This was mainly due to the fact that Felix Marchand, theevil genius of Manitou, had not been seen in the town or in the districtfor over a week. It was not generally known that he was absent because aman by the name of Dennis, whose wife he had wronged, was dogging himwith no good intent. Marchand had treated the woman's warning withcontempt, but at sight of her injured husband he had himself withdrawnfrom the scene of his dark enterprises. His malign influence wastherefore not at work at the moment. 

The tactics of the Lebanon Town Council had been careful and wise. Sothat the meeting should not be composed only of the roughest elements, they privately urged all responsible citizens to attend, and if possiblecapture the meeting for law and order and legitimate agitation. That waswhy Osterhaut, the town-crier, went about with a large dinner-bellannouncing the hour of the meeting and admonishing all "good folks" toattend. No one had ever seen Osterhaut quite so cheerful--and he had abonny cheerfulness on occasion--as on this grisly October day when Naturewas very sour and the spirit of the winds was in a "scratchy" mood. ButOsterhaut was not more cheerful than Jowett who, in a very undignifiedway, described the state of his feelings, on receiving a certainconfidence from Halliday, the lawyer, and Gabriel Druse, by turning acart-wheel in the Mayor's office; which certainly was an unusual thingin a man of fifty years of age. 

It was a people's meeting. No local official was on the platform. Under the influence of alien elements who, though their co-operation wasdirected against the common enemy, were intensely irritating, the meetingbecame disorderly. One or two wise men, however, were able to secureorder long enough to have the resolution passed for forming a LocalInterests Committee whose duty it would be to see that the people werenot sacrificed to a "soulless plutocracy. " While the names of those whowere to form the Committee were being selected, in a storm of disorderarising from the Manitou section of the crowd, the sky overhead grewsuddenly brighter and the sun came out, bringing an instant change. Itwas as though a hand, which had hypnotized them into anger, restored themto good-humour once again. 

At this moment, to the astonishment of all, there appeared at the backof the platform between Jowett and Halliday the lawyer, the man with atragic history who had been as one buried for weeks past, who hadvanished from their calculations. It was their old champion, Ingolby. Slowly a hush came over the vast assembly as, apparently guided by hisfriends on the platform, he was given a seat on the right of theChairman's table. 

A strange sensation, partly pleasure, partly resentment, passed throughthe crowd. Why did Ingolby come to remind them of better days gone--ofhis own rashness, of what they had lost through that rashness? Why hadhe come? They could not say and do all that they wanted with himpresent. It was like having a row in the presence of a corpse. He hadbeen a hero to all in Lebanon, but he was not in the picture now. Hisday was done. It was no place for him. Yet it was a pleasant omen thatthe sun broke clear and shining over the platform as Ingolby took hisseat. Presently in the silence he half-turned his head, murmuredsomething to the Chairman, and then got to his feet, stretching out ahand towards the crowd. 

For one moment there was silence, a little awestricken, a little painful, and then as from one man a great cheer went up. For a moment they hadthought him inconsiderate to come among them in this crisis, for he wasno longer of their scheme of things, and must be counted out, a beaten, battered, blind bankrupt. Yet the sight of him on his feet was too muchfor them. Blind he might be, but there was the personality which hadconquered them in the past brave, adroit, reckless, renowned. None ofthem, or very few of them, had seen him since that night at Barbazon'sTavern, yet in spite of his tragedy there seemed little change in him. There was the same quirk at the corner of the mouth, the same humour inthe strong face, not so ruddy now; and strangely enough the eyes wereneither guarded by spectacles, nor were they shrunken, glazed, ordiseased, so far as could be seen. 

Stretching out a hand, Ingolby gave a crisp laugh and said: "So there'sbeen trouble since I've been gone, has there?" The corner of his mouthquirked, his eyelids drooped in the old quizzical way, and the crowdlaughed in spite of themselves. What a spirit he had to take it all thatway!

"Got a little deeper in the mire, have you, boys?" he added. "They tellme the town's a frost just now, but it seems nice and warm here in thesun. Yes, boys, it's nice and warm here among you all--the same good oldcrowd that's made the two towns what they are. The same good old crowd, "he repeated, "--and up to the same old games!"

At this point he could scarcely proceed for laughter. "Like truepioneers, " he went on, "not satisfied with what you've got, but wantingsuch a lot more--if I might say so in the language of the dictionary, adeuce of a lot more. "

Almost every sentence had been punctuated by cheers. His personalitydominated them as aforetime with some new accent to it; his voice waslike that of one given up from the dead, yet come back from the warsalive and loving. They never knew what a figure he was until now whenthey saw and heard him again, and realized that he was one of the fewwhom the world calls leaders, because they have in them that immeasurablesympathy which is understanding of men and matters. Yet in the old daysthere never had been the something that was in his voice now, and in hisface there was a great friendliness, a sense of companionship, a Jonathanand David something. He was like a comrade talking to a thousand othercomrades. There was a new thing in him and they felt it stir them. Theythought he had been made softer by his blindness; and they were notwrong. Even the Manitou section were stilled into sympathy with him. Many of them had heard his speech in Barbazon's Tavern just before thehorseshoe struck him down, and they heard him now, much simpler in mannerand with that something in his voice and face. Yet it made them shrinka little, too, to see his blind eyes looking out straight before him. It was uncanny. Their idea was that the eyes were as before, but seeingnothing-blank to the world. 

Presently his hand shot out again. "The same old crowd!" he said. "Just the same--after the same old thing, wanting what we all want: thesetwo places, Manitou and Lebanon, to be boosted till they rule the Westand dominate the North. It's good to see you all here again"--he spokevery slowly--"to see you all here together looking for trouble--lookingfor trouble. There you are, Jim Barager; there you are, Bill Riley;there you are, Mr. William John Thomas McLeary. " The last named was thebutt of every tavern and every street corner. "There you are, Berry--oldbrown Berry, my barber. "

At first the crowd did not quite understand, did not realize that he wasactually pointing to the people whom he named, but presently, as Berrythe barber threw up his hands with a falsetto cry of understanding, therewas a simultaneous, wild rush forward to the platform. 

"He sees, boys--he sees!" they shouted. 

Ingolby's hand shot up above them with a gesture of command. 

"Yes, boys, I see--I see you all. I'm cured. My sight's come back, andwhat's more"--he snatched from his pocket a folded sheet of paper andheld it aloft "what's more, I've got my commission to do the old jobagain; to boss the railways, to help the two towns. The Mayor brought itback from Montreal yesterday; and together, boys, together, we'll makeManitou and Lebanon the fulcrum of the West, the swivel by which to swingprosperity round our centre. "

The platform swayed with the wild enthusiasm of the crowd storming it toshake hands with him, when suddenly a bell rang out across the river, wildly, clamorously. A bell only rang like that for a fire. Those onthe platform could see a horseman galloping across the bridge. 

A moment later someone shouted, "It's the Catholic church at Manitou onfire!"

CHAPTER XXIV

AT LONG LAST

Originally the Catholic church at Manitou had stood quite by itself, well back from the river, but as the town grew its dignified isolationwas invaded and houses kept creeping nearer and nearer to it. So thatwhen it caught fire there was general danger, because the town possessedonly a hand fire-engine. Since the first settlement of the place therehad been but few fires, and these had had pretty much their own way. When one broke out the plan was to form a long line of men, who passedbuckets of water between the nearest pump, well, or river, and theburning building. It had been useful in incipient fires, but it waschild's play in a serious outburst. The mournful fact that Manitou hadnever equipped itself with a first-class fire-engine or a fire-brigadewas now to play a great part in the future career of the two towns. Osterhaut put the thing in a nutshell as he slithered up the main streetof Lebanon on his way to the manning of the two fire-engines at theLebanon fire-brigade station. 

"This thing is going to link up Lebanon and Manitou like a trace-chain, "he declared with a chuckle. "Everything's come at the right minute. Here's Ingolby back on the locomotive, running the good old train ofProgress, and here's Ingolby's fire-brigade, which cost Lebanon twentythousand dollars and himself five thousand, going to put out the firesof hate consuming two loving hamulets. Out with Ingolby's fire-brigade!This is the day the doctor ordered! Hooray!"

Osterhaut had a gift of being able to do two things at one time. Nothingprevented him from talking, and though it had probably never been tested, it is quite certain he could have talked under water. His words had beenaddressed to Jowett, who drew to him on all great occasions like thedrafts of a regiment to the main body. Jowett was often very critical ofOsterhaut's acts, words and views, but on this occasion they were of onemind. 

"I guess it's Ingolby's day all right, " answered Jowett. "When you say'Hooray!' Osterhaut, I agree, but you've got better breath'n I have. Ican't talk like I used to, but I'm going to ride that fire-engine to savethe old Monseenoor's church--or bust. "

Both Jowett and Osterhaut belonged to the Lebanon fire-brigade, whichwas composed of only a few permanent professionals, helped by capableamateurs. The two cronies had their way, and a few moments later, wearing brass helmets, they were away with the engine and the hose, leaving the less rapid members of the brigade to follow with the ladders. 

"What did the Chief do?" asked Osterhaut. "Did you see what happened tohim?"

Jowett snorted. "What do you think Mr. Max Ingolby, Esquire, would do?He commandeered my sulky and that rawbone I bought from the ReverendTripple, and away he went like greased lightning over the bridge. Idon't know why I drove that trotter to-day, nor why I went on that sulky, for I couldn't hear good where I was, on the outskirts of the meeting;but I done it like as if the Lord had told me. The Chief spotted me soonas the fire-bell rung. In a second he bundled me off, straddled thesulky, and was away 'fore you could say snakes. "

"I don't believe he's strong enough for all this. He ain't got back towhere he was before the war, " remarked Osterhaut sagely. 

"War--that business at Barbazon's! You call that war! It wasn't war, "declared Jowett spasmodically, grasping the rail of the fire-engine asthe wheel struck a stone and nearly shot them from their seats. "Itwasn't war. It was terrible low-down treachery. That Gipsy gent, Fawe, pulled the lever, but Marchand built the scaffold. "

"Heard anything more about Marchand--where he is?" asked Osterhaut, asthe hoofs of the horses clattered on the bridge. 

"Yes, I've heard--there's news, " responded Jowett. "He's been lyingdrunk at Gautry's caboose ever since yesterday morning at five o'clock, when he got off the West-bound train. Nice sort of guy he is. What'sthe good of being rich, if you can't be decent Some men are born low. They always find their level, no matter what's done for them, andMarchand's level is the ditch. "

"Gautry's tavern--that joint!" exclaimed Osterhaut with repulsion. 

"Well, that ranchman, Dennis What's-his-name, is looking for him, andFelix can't go home or to the usual places. I dunno why he comes back atall till this Dennis feller gits out. "

"Doesn't make any bones about it, does he? Dennis Doane's the name, ain't it? Marchand spoiled his wife-run away with her up along the WindRiver, eh?" asked Osterhaut. 

Jowett nodded: "Yes, that's it, and Mr. Dennis Doane ain't careful;that's the trouble. He's looking for Marchand, and blabbing what hemeans to do when he finds him. That ain't good for Dennis. If he killsMarchand, it's murder, and even if the lawyers plead unwritten law, andhe ain't hung, and his wife ain't a widow, you can't have much marriedlife in gaol. It don't do you any good to be punished for punishingsomeone else. Jonas George Almighty--look! Look, Osterhaut!"

Jowett's hand was pointing towards the Catholic church, from a windowof which smoke was rolling. "There's going to be something to do there. It ain't a false alarm, Snorty. "

"Well, this engine'll do anything you ask it, " rejoined Osterhaut. "Whendid you have a fire last, Billy?" he shouted to the driver of theengine, as the horses' feet caught the dusty road of Manitou. 

"Six months, " was the reply, "but she's working smooth as music. She'sas good as anything 'twixt here and the Atlantic. "

"It ain't time for Winter fires. I wonder what set it going, " saidJowett, shaking his head ominously. "Something wrong with the furnace, I s'pose, " returned Osterhaut. "Probably trying the first heatup of theFall. "

Osterhaut was right. No one had set the church on fire. The sexton hadlighted the furnace for the first time to test it for the Winter'sworking, but had not stayed to see the result. There was a defect in thefurnace, the place had caught fire, and some of the wooden flooring hadbeen burnt before the aged Monseigneur Lourde discovered it. It was hewho had given the alarm and had rescued the silver altar-vessels from thesacristy. 

Manitou offered brute force, physical energy, native athletics, muscleand brawn; but it was of no avail. Five hundred men, with five hundredbuckets of water would have had no effect upon the fire at St. Michael'sChurch at Manitou; willing hands and loving Christian hearts would havebeen helpless to save the building without the scientific aid of theLebanon fire-brigade. Ingolby, on founding the brigade, had equipped itto the point where it could deal with any ordinary fire. The work it hadto do at St. Michael's was critical. If the church could not be saved, then the wooden houses by which it was surrounded would be swept away, and the whole town would be ablaze; for though it was Autumn, everythingwas dry, and the wind was sufficient to fan and spread the flames. 

Lebanon took command of the whole situation, and for the first time inthe history of the two towns men worked together under one control likebrothers. The red-shirted river-driver from Manitou and the lawyer'sclerk from Lebanon; the Presbyterian minister and a Christian brother ofthe Catholic school; a Salvation Army captain and a black-headed Catholicshantyman; the President of the Order of Good Templars and a switchmanmember of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament slaved together onthe hand-engine, to supplement the work of the two splendid engines ofthe Lebanon fire-brigade; or else they climbed the roofs of houses, sideby side, to throw on the burning shingles the buckets of water handed upto them. 

For some time it seemed as though the church could not be saved. Thefire had made good headway with the flooring, and had also made progressin the chancel and the altar. Skill and organization, combined with goodluck, conquered, however. Though a portion of the roof was destroyed andthe chancel gutted, the church was not beyond repair, and a few thousanddollars would put it right. There was danger, however, among the smallerhouses surrounding the church, and there men from both towns worked withgreat gallantry. By one of those accidents which make fatality, a smallwooden house some distance away, with a roof as dry as wool, caught firefrom a flying cinder. As everybody had fled from their own homes andshops to the church, this fire was not noticed until it had made headway. Then it was that the cries of Madame Thibadeau, who was confined to herbed in the house opposite, were heard, and the crowd poured down towardsthe burning building. It was Gautry's "caboose. " Gautry himself hadbeen among the crowd at the church. 

As Gautry came reeling and plunging down the street, someone shouted, "Is there anyone in the house, Gautry?"

Gautry was speechless with drink. He threw his hands up in the air witha gesture of maudlin despair, and shouted something which no oneunderstood. The crowd gathered like magic in the wide street before thehouse--the one wide street in Manitou--from the roof and upper windows ofwhich flames were bursting. Far up the street was heard the noisyapproach of the fire-engine, which now would be able to do little morethan save adjoining buildings. Gautry, reeling, mumbling and whining, gestured and wept. 

A man shook him roughly by the shoulder. "Brace up, get steady, youdamned old geezer! Is there any body in the house? Do you hear? Isthere anybody in the house?" he roared. 

Madame Thibadeau, who had dragged herself from her bed, was now at thewindow of the house opposite. Seeing Fleda Druse passing beneath, shecalled to her. 

"Ma'mselle, Felix Marchand is in Gautry's house--drunk!" she cried. "He'll burn to death--but yes, burn to death. "

In agitation Fleda hastened to where the stranger stood shaking oldGautry. 

"There's a man asleep inside the house, " she said to the stranger, andthen all at once she realized who he was. It was Dennis Doane, whosewife was staying in Gabriel Druse's home: it was the husband ofMarchand's victim. 

"A man in there, is there?" exclaimed Dennis. "Well, he's got to besaved. " He made a rush for the door. Men called to him to come back, that the roof would fall in. In the smoking doorway he looked back. "What floor?" he shouted. 

From the window opposite, her fat old face lighted by the blazing roof, Madame Thibadeau called out, "Second floor! It's the second floor!"

In an instant Dennis was lost in the smoke and flame. 

One, two, three minutes passed. A fire-engine arrived; in a moment thehose was paid out to the river near by, and as a fireman seized thenozzle to train the water upon the building the roof fell in with acrash. At that instant Dennis stumbled out of the house, blind withsmoke, his clothes aflame, carrying a man in his arms. A score of handscaught them, coats smothered Dennis's burning clothes, and the man he hadrescued was carried across the street and laid upon the pavement. 

"Great glory, it's Marchand! It's Felix Marchand!" someone shouted. 

"Is he dead?" asked another. 

"Dead drunk, " was the comment of Osterhaut, who had helped to carry himacross the street. 

At that moment Ingolby appeared on the scene. "What's all this?" heasked. Then he recognized Marchand. "He's been playing with fireagain, " he added sarcastically, and there was a look of contempt on hisface. 

As he said it, Dennis broke through the crowd and made for Marchand. Stooping over, he looked into Marchand's face. 

"Hell and damnation--you!" he growled. "I risked my life to save you!"

With a sudden access of rage his hand suddenly went to his hip-pocket, but another hand was quicker. It was that of Fleda Druse. 

"No--no, " she said, her fingers on his wrist. "You have had yourrevenge. For the rest of his life he will have to bear his punishment--that you have saved him. Leave him alone. It was to be. It is fate. "

Dennis Doane was not a man of great thinking capacity. If he got amatter into his head it stayed there till it was dislodged, anddislodging was a real business with him. 

"If you want her to live with you again, you had better let this be as itis, " whispered Fleda, for the crowd were surging round and cheering thenew hero. "Just escaped the roof falling in, " said one. 

"Got the strength of two, for a drunk man weighs twice as heavy as asober one!" exclaimed another admiringly. 

"Marchand's game is up on the Sagalac, " declared a third decisively. 

The excitement was so great, however, that only a very few of them knewwhat they were saying, and fewer still knew that Dennis Doane had riskedhis life to save the man he had been stalking for weeks past. Marchandhad been lying on his face in the smoke-filled room when Dennis brokeinto it, and he had been carried down the stairs without his face beingseen at all. 

To Dennis it was as though he had been made a fool of by Fate orProvidence, or whatever controlled the destinies of men; as though thedangerous episode had been arranged to trap him into this situation. 

Ingolby drew near and laid a hand upon Dennis's arm. Fleda's hand was onthe other arm. 

"You can't kill a man and save him too, " said Ingolby quietly, andholding the abashed blue eyes of Dennis. "There were two ways to punishhim; taking away his life at great cost, or giving it him at great cost. If you'd taken away his life, the cost would probably have been your ownlife; in giving him his life you only risked your own; you had a chanceto save it. You're a bit scorched-hair, eyebrows, moustache, clothestoo, but he'll have brimstone inside him. Come along. Your wife wouldrather have it this way; and so will you, to-morrow. Come along. "

Dennis suddenly swung round with a gesture of fury. "He spoiled her-treated her like dirt!" he cried huskily. 

With savage purpose he made a movement towards where Marchand had lain;but Marchand was gone. With foresight Ingolby had quickly and quietlyaccomplished that while Dennis's back was turned. 

"You'd be treating her like a brute if you went to prison for killingMarchand, " urged Ingolby. "Give her a chance. She's fretting her heartout. "

"She wants to go back to Elk Mountain with you, " pleaded Fleda gently. "She couldn't do that if the law took hold of you. "

"Ain't there to be any punishment for men like him?" demanded Dennis, stubbornly yet helplessly. "Why didn't I let him burn! I'd have beenwilling to burn myself to have seen him sizzling. Ain't men like that tobe punished at all?"

"When he knows who has saved him, he'll sizzle inside for the rest of hislife, " remarked Ingolby. "Don't think he hasn't got a heart. He's donewrong and gone wrong; he has belonged to the sewer, but he isn't all bad, and maybe this is the turning-point. Drink'll make a man do anything. "

"His kind are never sorry for what they do, " commented Dennis bitterly. "They're sorry for what comes from what they do, but not for the doing ofit. I can't think the thing out. It makes me sick. I was hunting forhim to kill him; I was watching this town like a lynx, and I've been andgone and saved his body from Hell on earth. "

"Well, perhaps you've saved his soul from Hell below, " said Fleda. "Ah, come! Your face and hands are burned, your hair is scorched--yourclothes need mending. Arabella is waiting for you. Come home withme to Arabella. "

With sudden resolve Dennis squared his shoulders. "All right, " he said. "This thing's too much for me. I can't get the hang of it. I've lost myhead. "

"No, I won't come, I can't come now, " said Ingolby, in response to aninquiring look from Fleda. 

"Not now, but before sundown, please. "

As Fleda and Dennis disappeared, Ingolby looked back towards the fire. "How good it is to see again even a sight like that, " he said. "Nothingthat the eyes see is so horrible as the pictures that come to the mindwhen the eyes don't see. As Dennis said, I can't get the hang of it, butI'll try--I'll try. "

The burning of Gautry's tavern had been conquered, though not before itwas a shell; and the houses on either side had been saved. Lebanon hadshown itself masterful in organization, but it had also shown that thatwhich makes enemies is not so deep or great a thing as that which makesfriends. Jealous, envious, narrow and bitter Manitou had been, but shenow saw Lebanon in a new light. It was a strange truth that if Lebanonhad saved the whole town of Manitou, it would not have been the same tothe people as the saving of the church. Beneath everything in Manitou--beneath its dirt and its drunkenness, its irresponsibility and the signsof primeval savagery which were part of its life, there was the traditionof religion, the almost fanatical worship of that which was their master, first and last, in spite of all--the Church. Not one of its citizens butwould have turned with horror from the man who cursed his baptism; notone but would want the last sacrament when his time came. Lebanon hadsaved the Catholic church, the temple of their faith, and in an hour wasaccomplished what years had not wrought. 

The fire at the church was out. A few houses had been destroyed, andhundreds of others had been saved. The fire-brigade of Lebanon, with itstwo engines, had performed prodigies of valour. The work done, the menmarched back, but with Osterhaut sitting on one fire-engine and Jowett onthe other, through crowds of cheering, roaring workmen, rivermen, shantymen, and black-eyed habitants. When Ingolby walked past Barbazon'sTavern arm in arm with Monseigneur Lourde, to the tiny house where thegood priest lived, the old man's face beaming with gratitude, and with apiety which was his very life, the jubilant crowd followed them to thevery door. There the sainted pioneer expressed the feeling of the momentwhen he raised his hands in benediction over them and said:

"Peace be unto you and the blessings of peace; and the Lord make his faceto shine upon you and give you peace now and for ever more. "

CHAPTER XXV

MAN PROPOSES

Before sunset, as Ingolby had promised, he made his way towards GabrielDruse's house. A month had gone since he had left its hospitalitybehind. What had happened between that time and this day of fate forLebanon and Manitou?

It is not a long story, and needs but a brief backward look. This hadhappened:

The New York expert performed the operation upon Ingolby's eyes, announced it successful, declared that his sight would be restored, andthen vanished with a thousand dollars in his pocket. For days thereafterthe suspense was almost more than Fleda could bear. She grew suddenlythin and a little worn, and her big eyes had that look of yearning whichonly comes to those whose sorrow is for another. Old Gabriel Druse wasemphatic in his encouragement, but his face reflected the trouble in thatof his daughter. He knew well that if Ingolby remained blind he wouldnever marry Fleda, though he also knew well that, with her nature, almostfanatical in its convictions, she would sacrifice herself, if sacrificewas the name for it. The New York expert had prophesied and promised, but who could tell! There was the chance of failure, and the vanishedeye-surgeon had the thousand dollars in his pocket. 

Two people, however, were cheerful; they were Ingolby and Jim. Jim wentabout the place humming a nigger melody to himself, and twice he broughtBerry the barber to play to his Chief on the cottonfield fiddle. NiggerJim, though it was two generations gone which linked him with the wildsof the Gold Coast, was the slave of fanatical imagination, and inIngolby's own mind there was the persistent superstition that all wouldbe well, because of a dream he had had. He dreamed he heard his deadmother's voice in the room, where he lay. She had called him by name, and had said: "Look at me, Max, " and he had replied, "I cannot see, " andshe had said again, "Look at me, my son!" Then he thought that he had looked at her, hadseen her face clearly, and it was as the last time they parted, shiningand sweet and good. She had said to him in days long gone, that if shecould ever speak to him across the Void, she would; and he had thefullest belief now that she had done so. 

So it was that this dreadnought of industry and organization, in dock forrepairs, cheerfully awaited the hour when he would be launched again uponthe tide of work-healthy, healed and whole. At last there came the daywhen, for an instant, the bandages could be removed. There were present, Rockwell, Fleda, and Jim--Jim, pale but grinning, at the foot of the bed;Fleda, with her back against the door and her hands clenched behind heras though to shut out the invading world. Never had her heart beat as itbeat now, but her eyes were steady and bright. There was in them, however, a kind of pleading look. She could not see Ingolby's face; didnot want to see it when the bandages were taken off; but at the criticalmoment she shut her eyes and her back held the door, as though a thousandwere trying to force an entrance. 

The first words after the bandages were removed came from Ingolby. 

"Well, Jim, you look all right!" he said. 

Swaying as she went, Fleda half-blindly moved towards a chair near by andsank into it. She scarcely heard Jim's reply. 

"Looking all right yourself, Chief. You won't see much change in thishere old town. "

Ingolby's hand was in Rockwell's. "It's all right, isn't it?" he asked. 

"You can see it is, " answered Rockwell with a chuckle in his voice, andthen suddenly he put the bandages round Ingolby's eyes again. "That'senough for today, " he said. 

A moment later the bandages were secured and Rockwell stood back from thebed. 

"In another week you'll see as well as ever you did, " Rockwell said. "I'm proud of you. "

"Well, I hope I'll see a little better than ever I did, " remarked Ingolbymeaningly. "I was pretty short-sighted before. "

At that instant he heard Fleda's footstep approaching the bed. Hissenses had grown very acute since the advent of his blindness. He heldout his hand into space. 

"What a nice room this is!" he said as her fingers slid into his. "It'sthe nicest room I was ever in. It's too nice for me. In a few days I'llhand the lease over again to its owner, and go back to the pigsty Jimkeeps in Stormont Street. "

"Well, there ain't any pigs in that sty now, Chief; but it's all ready, "said Jim, indignant and sarcastic. 

It was a lucky speech. It broke the spell of emotion which was greatlystraining everybody's endurance. 

"That's one in the eye for somebody, " remarked Rockwell drily. 

"What would you like for lunch?" asked Fleda, letting go Ingolby's hand, but laying her fingers on his arm for a moment. 

What would he like for lunch! Here was a man back from the Shadows, frombroken hopes and shattered career, from the helplessness and eternalpatience of the blind; here he was on the hard, bright highroad again, with a procession of restored things coming towards him, with life andlove within his grasp; and the woman to whom it mattered most of all, whowas worth it all, and more than all where he was concerned, said to himin this moment of revelation, "What would you like for lunch?"

With an air as casually friendly as her own, he put another hand on thefingers lying on his arm, patted them, and said gaily, "Anything I cansee. As a drover once said to me, 'I can clean as fur as I can reach. '"

In just such a temper also they had parted when he went back to his"pigsty" with Jim. To Gabriel Druse he had said all that one man mightsay to another without excess of feeling; to Madame Bulteel he had givena gold pencil which he had always worn; to Fleda he gave nothing, saidlittle, but the few words he did say told the story, if not the wholestory. 

"It's a nice room, " he said, and she had flushed at his words, "and I'vehad the best time of my life in it. I'd like to buy it, but I know it'snot for sale. Love and money couldn't buy it--isn't that so?"

Then had--come days in his own home, still with bandaged eyes, but withthe bandages removed for increasing hours every day; yet no one at all inthe town knowing the truth except the Mayor, Halliday the lawyer, and oneor two others who kept the faith until Ingolby gave them the word tospeak. Then had come the Mayor's visit to Montreal, the great meeting, the fire at Manitou, and now Ingolby on the way to his tryst with Fleda. They had met twice only since he had left Gabriel Druse's house, and onthe last occasion they had looked each other full in the eyes, andIngolby had said to her in the moment they had had alone:

"I'm going to get back, but I can't do it without you. "

To this her reply had been, "I hope it's not so bad as that, " and she hadlooked provokingly in his eyes. Now she knew beyond peradventure that hecared for her, and she was almost provoked at herself that when he was insuch danger of losing his sight for ever she had caught his head to herbreast in the passion of the moment. Many a time when he had beenasleep, with gentle fingers she had caressed his hands, his head, hisface; but that did not count, because he did not know. He did, however, know of that moment when her passionate heart broke over him intenderness; and she tried to make him think, by things said since, that it was only pity for his sufferings which made her do it. 

Ingolby thought of all these things, but in a spirit of understanding, as he went to his tryst with her at sunset on the day when Lebanon andManitou were reconciled. 

 . .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 

He met her walking among the trees, very near the place where they hadhad their first long talk, months before, when Jethro Fawe was a prisonerin the Hut in the Woods. Then it was warm, singing Summer; now, beneaththe feet the red and brown leaves rustled, the trees were stretching upgaunt arms to the Winter, the woods were no longer vocal, and the singingbirds had fled, though here and there a black squirrel, not yet gone toWinter quarters, was busy and increasing his stores. A hedgehog scuttledacross his path. He smiled as he remembered telling Fleda that once, when he was a little boy, he had eaten hedgehog, and she had asked him ifhe remembered the Gipsy name for hedgehog--hotchewitchi was the word. Now, as the shapeless creature made for its hole, it was significant ofthe history of his life during the past Summer. How long it seemed sincethat day when love first peeped forth from their hearts like a young faceat the lattice of a sunlit window. Fleda had warned him of trouble, andthat trouble had come!

In his mind she was a woman like none he had ever known; she couldthink greatly, act largely, give tremendously. As he stood waiting, thewonderful, ample life of her seemed to come like a wave towards him. Inhis philosophy, intellect alone had never been the governing influence. Intellect must find its play through the senses, be vitalized by theelements of physical life, or it could not prevail. There was not onesensual strain in him, but with a sensuous mind he loved the vital thing. He was sure that presently Gabriel Druse would disappear, leaving herbehind with him. That was what he meant to ask her to-day--to be andstay with him always. He knew that the Romanys were gathering in theprairie. They had been heard of here and there, and some of themhad been seen along the Sagalac, though he knew nothing of that dramaticincident in the woods when Fleda was kidnapped and Jethro Fawe vanishedfrom the scene. 

As Fleda came towards him, under the same trees which had shielded herfrom the sun months ago--now nearly naked and bare--something in her lookand bearing sharply caught his interest. He asked himself what it was. So often a face familiar over half a lifetime perhaps, suddenly at somenew angle, or because, by chance, one has looked at it searchingly, showsa new expression, a new contour never before observed, giving freshsignificance to the character. There was that in Ingolby's mind, a depthof desire, a resolve to stake two lives against the chances of Fate, which made him look at Fleda now with a revealing intensity. What wasthe new thing in her carriage which captured his eye? Presently itflashed upon him--memories of Mexico and the Southern United States;native women with jars of water upon their heads; the erect, well-balanced form; the sure, sinuous movement; the step measured, yet free;the dignity come of carrying the head as though it were a pillar of anAthenian temple, one of the beautiful Caryatides yonder by the AEgeanSea. 

It smote him as a sudden breath of warm air strikes a face in the nightcoolness of the veldt. His pulses quickened, he flushed with the softshock of it. There she was, refined, civilized, gowned like other women, with all the manners and details of civilization and social life abouther; yet, in spite of it all, she did not belong; there was about herstill something remote and alien. It had not to do with appearancealone, though her eyes were so vivid, and her expression so swift andvarying; it was to be found in the whole presence--something mountain-like and daring, something Eastern and reserved and secret, somethingremote--brooding like a Sphinx, and prophetic like a Sibyl. But supposethat in days to come the thing that did not belong, which was of theEast, of the tan, of the River Starzke; suppose that it should--

With a great effort he drove apprehension and the instant's confusedwonder far away, and when, come close to him, she smiled, showing theperfect white teeth, and her eyes softened to a dreamy regard of him, allhe had ever felt for her in the past months seemed concentrated into thisone moment. Yet he did not look like a languishing lover; rather likeone inflamed with a great idea or stirred to a great resolve. 

For quite a minute they stood gazing as though they would read the wholetruth in each other's eyes. She was all eager, yet timorous; he wasresolved; yet now, when the great moment had come, as it were, like astammerer fearing the sound of his own voice. There was so much to saythat he could not speak. 

She broke the spell. "I am here. Can't you see me?" she asked in aquizzical, playful tone, her lips trembling a little, but with a smile inher eyes which she vainly tried to veil. 

She had said the one thing which above all others could have lifted thesituation to its real significance. A few weeks ago the eyes now lookinginto hers and telling a great story were sealed with night, and the mindbehind was fretted by the thought of a perpetual darkness. All thetragedy of the past rushed into his mind now, and gave all that wasbetween them, or was to be between them, its real meaning. A beautifulwoman is dear to man simply as woman, and not as the woman; virtue hasslain its thousands, but physical charm has slain its tens of thousands!Whatever Ingolby's defects, however, infinitely more than the girl'sbeauty, more than the palpitating life in her, than red lips and brighteye, than warm breast and clasping hand, was something beneath all whichwould last, or should last, when the hand was palsied and the eye wasdim. 

"I am here. Can't you see me?"

All that he had regained in life in her little upper room rushed uponhim, and with outstretched arms and in a voice choked with feeling, hesaid:

"See you! Dear God--To see you and all the world once more! It is beingborn again to me. I haven't learned to talk in my new world yet; but Iknow three words of the language. I love you. Come--I'll be good toyou. "

She drew back from him, and her look said that she would read him to theuttermost word in his life's book, would see the heart of this wonderfulthing; and then with a hungry cry, she flung her arms around his neck andpressed her wet eyes against his flushed cheek. 

A half-hour later, as they wandered back to the house he suddenlystopped, put his hands on her shoulders, looked earnestly in her eyes, and said:

"God's good to me. I hope I'll remember that. "

"You won't be so blind as to forget, " she answered, and she wound herfingers in his with a feeling which was more than the simple love ofwoman for man. "I've got much more to remember than you have, "she added. Suddenly she put both hands upon his breast. "You don'tunderstand; you can't understand, but I tell you that I shall have tofight hard if I am to be all you want me to be. I have got a past toforget; you have a past you want to remember--that's the difference. I must tell you the truth: it's in my veins, that old life, in spite ofall. Listen. I ought to have told you, and I meant to tell you beforethis happened, but when I saw you there, and you held out your arms tome, I forgot everything. Yet still I must tell you now, though perhapsyou will hate me when you know. The old life--I hate it, but it callsme, and I have an impulse to go back to it even though I hate it. Listen. I'll tell you what happened the other day. It's terrible, butit's true. I was walking in the woods--"

Thereupon she told him of her being seized and carried to the Gipsy camp, and of all that happened there to the last detail. She even had thecourage to tell of all she felt there; but when she had finished, with ahalf-frightened look in her eyes, her face pale, and her hands claspedbefore her, he did not speak for a minute. Suddenly, however, he seemedto tower over her, his two big hands were raised as though they wouldstrike, and then the palms spread out and enclosed her cheeks lovingly, and his eyes fastened upon hers. 

"I know, " he said gently. "I always understood--everything; but you'llnever have the same fight again, because I'll be with you. Youunderstand, Fleda--I'll be with you. "

With an exclamation of gratitude she nestled into his arms. 

Before the thrill of his embrace had passed from their pulses, they heardthe breaking of twigs under a quick footstep, and Rhodo stood beforethem. "Come, " he said to Fleda. His voice was as solemn and strange ashis manner. "Come!" he repeated peremptorily. 

Fleda sprang to his side. "Is it my father? What has happened?" shecried. 

The old man waved her aside, and pointed toward the house. 

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SLEEPER

The Ry of Rys sat in his huge armchair, his broad-brimmed hat on his kneein front of him. One hand rested on the chair-arm, the other clasped thehat as though he would put it on, but his head was fallen forward on hisbreast. 

It was a picture of profound repose, but it was the repose of death. It was evident that the Ry had prepared to leave the house, had felt asudden weakness, and had taken to his chair to recover himself. As wasevident from the normal way in which his fingers held his hat, and hishand rested on the chair-arm, death had come as gently as a beam oflight. With his stick lying on the table beside him, and his hat on hisknee, he was like one who rested a moment before renewing a journey. There could not have been a pang in his passing. He had gone as most menwish to go--in the midst of the business of life, doing the usual things, and so passing into the sphere of Eternity as one would go from this roomto that. Only a few days before had he yielded up his temporary positionas chief constable, and had spent almost every hour since in conferencewith Rhodo. What he had planned would never be known to his daughternow. It was Rhodo himself who had found his master with head bowedbefore the Master of all men. 

Before Fleda entered the room she knew what awaited her; a mercifulintuition had blunted the shock to her senses. Yet when she saw the Ryon his throne of death a moan broke from her lips like that of one whosees for the last time someone indelibly dear, and turns to face strangepaths with uncertain feet. She did not go to the giant figure seated inthe chair. In what she did there was no panic or hysteria of laceratedheart and shocked sense; she only sank to her knees in the room a fewfeet away from him, and looked at him. 

"Father! Oh, Ry! Oh, my Ry!" she whispered in agony and admiration, too, and kept on whispering. 

Fleda had whispered to him in such awe, not only because he was herfather, but because he was so much a man among men, a giant, with agreat, lumbering mind, slow to conceive, but moving in a large, impressive way when once conception came. To her he had been more thanfather; he had been a patriarch, a leader, a viking, capable of the furyof a Scythian lord, but with the tenderness of a peasant father to hisfirst child. 

"My Ry! My father! Oh, my Ry of Rys!" she kept murmuring to herself. 

On either side of her, but a few feet behind, stood Rhodo and Ingolby. 

Presently in a low, firm voice Rhodo spoke. 

"The Ry of Rys is dead, but his daughter must stand upon her feet, and inhis place speak for him. Is it not well with him? He sleeps. Sleep isbetter than pain. Let his daughter speak. "

Slowly Fleda arose. Not so much what Rhodo had said as the meaning inhis voice, aroused her to a situation which she must face. Rhodo hadsaid that she must speak for her father. What did it mean?

"What is it you wish to say to me, Rhodo?" she asked. 

"What I have to say is for your ears only, " was the low reply. 

"I will go, " said Ingolby. "But is it a time for talk?" He made amotion towards the dead man. "There are things to be said which can onlybe said now, and things to be done which can only be done according towhat is said now, " grimly remarked Rhodo. 

"I wish you to remain, " said Fleda to Ingolby with resolution in herbearing as she placed herself beside the chair where the dead man sat. "What is it you want to say to me?" she asked Rhodo again. 

"Must a Romany bare his soul before a stranger?" replied Rhodo. "Must aman who has been the voice of the Ry of Rys for the long years have nowords face to face with the Ry's daughter now that he is gone? Must thesecret of the dead be spoken before the robber of the dead--"

It was plain that some great passion was working in the man, that it waswise and right to humour him, and Ingolby intervened. 

"I will not remain, " he said to Fleda. To Rhodo he added: "I am not arobber of the dead. That's high-faluting talk. What I have of his wasgiven to me by him. She was for me if I could win her. He said so. This is a free country. I will wait outside, " he added to Fleda. 

She made a gesture as though she would detain him, but she realized thatthe hour of her fate was at hand, and that the old life and the new wereface to face, Rhodo standing for one and she for the other. When theywere alone, Rhodo's eyes softened, and he came near to her. "You askedme what I wished to tell you, " he said. "See then, I want to tell youthat it is for you to take the place of the dead Ry. Everywhere in theworld where the Romanys wander they will rejoice to hear that a Druserules us still. The word of the Ry of Rys was law; what he wished to bedone was done; what he wished to be undone was undone. Because of you hehid himself from his people; because of you I was for ever wandering, keeping the peace by lies for love of the Ry and for love of you. "

His voice shook. "Since your mother died--and she was kin of mine--youwere to me the soul of the Romany people everywhere. As a barren womanloves a child, so I loved you. I loved you for the sake of your mother. I gave her to the Ry, who was the better man, that she might be great andwell placed. So it is I would have you be ruler over us, and I wouldserve you as I served your father until I, also, fall asleep. "

"It is too late, " Fleda answered, and there was great emotion in hervoice now. "I am no longer a Romany. I am my father's daughter, butI have not been a Romany since I was ill in England. I will not go back;I shall go with the man I love, to be his wife, here, in the Gorgioworld. You believed my father when he spoke; well, believe me--I speakthe truth. It was my father's will that I should be what I am, and dowhat I am now doing. Nothing can alter me. "

"If it be that Jethro Fawe is still alive he is free from the Sentence ofthe Patrin, and he will become the Ry of Rys, " said the old man withsudden passion. 

"It may be so. I hope it is so. He is of the blood, and I pray thatJethro has escaped the sentence which my father passed, " answered Fleda. "By the River Starzke it was ordained that he should succeed my father, marrying me. Let him succeed. "

The old man raised both hands, and made a gesture as though he woulddrive her from his sight. 

"My life has been wasted, " he said. "I wish I were also in death besidehim. " He gazed at the dead man with the affection of a clansman for hischief. 

Fleda came up close to him. "Rhodo! Rhodo!" she said gently and sadly. "Think of him and all he was, and not of me. Suppose I had died inEngland--think of it in that way. Let me be dead to you and to allRomanys, and then you will think no evil. "

The old man drew himself up. "Let no more be said, " he replied. "Let itend here. The Ry of Rys is dead. His body and all things that are hisbelong now to his people. Say farewell to him, " he added, withauthority. 

"You will take him away?" Fleda asked. 

Rhodo inclined his head. "When the doctors have testified, we will takehim with us. Say your farewells, " he added, with gesture of command. 

A cry of protest rose from Fleda's soul, and yet she knew it was what theRy would have wished, that he should be buried by his own people wherethey would. 

Slowly she drew near to the dead man, and leaned over and kissed hisshaggy head. She did not seek to look into the sightless eyes; theillusion of sleep was so great that she wished to keep this picture ofhim while she lived; but she touched the cold hand which held the hatupon the knee and the other that lay upon the chair-arm. Then, with amist before her eyes, she passed from the room. 

CHAPTER XXVII

THE WORLD FOR SALE

As though by magic, like the pictures of a dream, out of the horizon, in caravans, by train, on horseback, the Romany people gathered to theobsequies of their chief and king. For months, hundreds of them had notbeen very far away. Unobtrusive, silent, they had waited, watched, tillthe Ry of Rys should come back home again. Home to them was the openroad where Romanys trailed or camped the world over. 

A clot of blood in the heart had been the verdict of the doctors; andLebanon and Manitou had watched the Ry of Rys carried by his own peopleto the open prairie near to Tekewani's reservation. There, in the hoursbetween the midnight and the dawn, all Gabriel Druse's personalbelongings--the clothes, the chair in which he sat, the table at which heate, the bed in which he slept, were brought forth and made into a pyre, as was the Romany way. Nothing personal of his chattels remained behind. The walking-stick which lay beside him in the moment of his death was thelast thing placed upon the pyre. Then came the match, and the flamesmade ashes of all those things which once he called his own. Standingapart, Tekewani and his braves watched the ceremonial of fire with asympathy born of primitive custom. It was all in tune with thetraditions of their race. 

As dawn broke, and its rosy light valanced the horizon, a greatprocession moved away from the River Sagalac towards the East, to whichall wandering and Oriental peoples turn their eyes. With it, all thatwas mortal of Gabriel Druse went to its hidden burial. Only to theRomany people would his last resting-place be known; it would be asobscure as the grave of him who was laid:

 "By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave. "

Many people from Manitou and Lebanon watched the long procession pass, and two remained until the last wagon had disappeared over the crest ofthe prairie. Behind them were the tents of the Indian reservation;before them was the alert morn and the rising sun; and ever moving on tothe rest his body had earned was the great chief lovingly attended by hisown Romany folk; while his daughter, forbidden to share in the ceremonialof race, remained with the stranger. 

With a face as pale and cold as the western sky, the desolation of thislast parting and a tragic renunciation giving her a deathly beauty, Fledastood beside the man who must hereafter be, to her, father, people, andall else. Shuddering with the pain of this hour, yet resolved to beginthe new life here and now, as the old life faded before her eyes, sheturned to him, and, with the passing of the last Romany over the crest ofthe hill, she said bravely:

"I want to help you do the big things. They will be yours. The world isall for you yet. "

Ingolby shook his head. He had had his Moscow. 

His was the true measure of things now; his lesson had been learned;values were got by new standards; he knew in a real sense the things thatmattered. 

"I have you--the world for sale!" he said, with the air of onediscarding a useless thing. 

GLOSSARY OF ROMANY WORDS

Bosh----fiddle, noise, music. Bor----an exclamation (literally, a hedge). 

Chal----lad, fellow. Chi----child, daughter, girl. 

Dadia----an exclamation. Dordi----an exclamation. 

Hotchewitchi----hedgehog. 

Kek----no, none. Koppa----blanket. 

Mi Duvel----My God. 

Patrin----small heaps of grass, or leaves, or twigs, or string, laid at cross-roads to indicate the route that must be followed. Pral----brother or friend. 

Rinkne rakli----pretty girl. Ry----King or ruler. 

Tan----tent, camp. 

Vellgouris----fair. 

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